


Perfect Day

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (its all past cancer), Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Artist Keith (Voltron), Battleshots, Beaches, Boys In Love, Childhood Friends, Drinking Games, Drunk Shiro (Voltron), Explicit Consent, Flirting, Food Trucks, Frat Boy Shiro (Voltron), Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heartbeats, Keith thirst, Laughter During Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Sex Is Fun, Sleepy Sex, Underage Drinking, frat party, happy endings, thick thighs save lives (and ruin jeans), thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26461708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: After a long night in a noisy frat house, Shiro heads to his favorite coffee shop in the hopes of finding enough caffeine to make it through the day. What he finds instead is a blast from his past in the form of his childhood best friend Keith who he hasn’t seen in years. Desperate to make up for lost time, Shiro tries to give Keith an unforgettable perfect day, and winds up with so much more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 380
Collections: Sheith Prompt Party 2020





	Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SheithParty 2020 for the prompt "You would never expect Shiro to be a total lightweight."
> 
> I cannot thank starlitruns enough for holding my hand as I brainstormed and wrote and worried. She’s the ultimate cheerleader and support system and maybe this fic possible. Also my eternal gratitude to whiskyandwildflowers for being such a talented and supportive beta. 
> 
> For those worried about the cancer tag please see end notes for a small spoiler.

In terms of long days, today takes the cake and it’s not even ten a.m. yet. Shiro’s running on approximately four hours of broken sleep because everyone in his house are noisy fuckers, his head is throbbing, and he’s got a physics exam in twenty minutes worth half his grade. An exam for a class which he should already be in his seat for, but instead he’s in line at the coffee shop on the opposite side of campus because Shiro needs a quad latte like he needs to breathe. 

He might never get a latte either with the way the line is moving.

In his pocket Shiro’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to read the incoming text message.

_**Matt:** where the fuck are you?_

Shiro glances at the line in front of him and sighs, jabbing his thumbs at the phone.

_I’m getting a coffee I’ll be there in 5. Save me a seat._

He swipes his messages shut and sighs again. Five minutes is definitely a lie. Shiro’s fast though, if the line keeps moving and he runs he can probably make it to his exam on time. _Probably_.

Thirty seconds later his phone buzzes again. Shiro knows who it is before he opens the message.

_**Matt:** youre a fucking jitter juice addict shirogane hurry the fuck up or youll be late and slav won’t let you take the exam_

Five seconds later there’s another one.

_**Matt:** and bring me a muffin_

Shiro stifles his laughter, some of the tension in his body receding when the line finally moves and he gets one step closer to his latte. He’s so close now he can almost taste the smooth espresso, warm milk, and sweet syrup already.

 _You’re a carb addict_ he texts back, pocketing his phone.

It buzzes again and Shiro ignores it. He doesn’t need to check it to know Matt’s likely sent him some string of emojis meant to express his displeasure with Shiro.

The line moves again and Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. He’s got exactly seventeen minutes left. He can do this. Assuming the latte takes four minutes or less to make and a minute or so to check out, he will have just enough time to sprint across campus and drop his ass in his chair before Slav blocks the door with a pile of chairs.

By the time the person in front of him gets their drink, Shiro’s adrenaline is already up.

“Good morning,” the Barista says with a smile, “what can I—”

“I need an extra hot quad latte, no foam, and four pumps of caramel syrup. With whipped cream,” Shiro adds. He’s so tired he deserves that whipped cream.

The barista’s smile turns into a strange grimace. “Our espresso machine is broken we can’t make lattes.”

“No,” Shiro says. “No, I _need_ a latte. My housemates were up all night playing beer pong and I only got a few hours sleep and I have an exam that I should be at right now with the worst professor who is going to try to block the door with a mountain of chairs to stop people from being late, which I might be if I don’t hurry up and I was out of coffee at home. I _need_ my latte,” Shiro says, dimly aware people are staring. 

The barista is definitely grimacing now. “Yeah, that sucks but, uh...I can't make you a latte. You want a hot cocoa?”

“There’s no caffeine in cocoa,” Shiro almost cries.

“Sorry,” she says again.

Shiro takes a slow deep breath. This is fine. He can handle this. “Okay, just..a cold brew then. A big one.”

He doesn’t really like cold brew, it’s a little too bitter for his taste but maybe if he adds enough sugar and cream it’ll be fine. Besides it’s caffeine at least.

“Uh, well the thing is—”

“No,” Shiro interrupts. “Please don’t tell me no.”

The barista looks really sorry now. “The person in front of you bought the last of it. The espresso machine has been down all morning so we ran out really early.”

The throbbing in Shiro’s head increases. 

“Do you have anything with caffeine in it?” he asks, basically desperate now.

“We have tea,” she offers. “It’s not espresso or cold brew, but you know.”

Shiro barely resists the urge to cry. He hates tea. Tea reminds him of being a kid, of months and months spent in the hospital sick. His grandpa plied him with enough tea to fill the Atlantic ocean, trying to soothe the nausea from chemo the only way he knew how. To Shiro’s grandpa, tea cured everything. Well, except Shiro’s cancer.

Despite his dislike of tea, Shiro had drunk and drunk the tea without complaint, equally desperate to do anything to lessen his grandpa’s worry. 

He does not want tea right now. Not even a little bit. But he also knows that he drinks too much coffee regularly to ignore the caffeine withdrawal headache coming on and if he doesn’t get something in him now his head will hurt too bad to finish his test.

“Okay, tea,” Shiro says, trying to smile. It’s not the barista’s fault Shiro’s day has been shot to shit. “With four sugar and a splash of cream please.”

“You got it,” she says, gabbing a paper cup and scribbling his order on the side.

“Make it six sugars,” Shiro interjects, because fuck it, if he has to drink tea it might as well be as sugar-laden as he can stomach. “And a blueberry muffin to go.”

“Gotcha,” she says, turning the four into a six. 

Once Shiro hears his total and pays, he moves to the side near the far wall to wait by the pick up counter. It’s there that Shiro’s life changes irrevocably. 

“Excuse me,” a male voice says, drawing Shiro’s attention to the corner as a student drops into the table, plopping his backpack on top and pulling out his laptop.

Every thought in Shiro’s brain tunnels to the boy in the corner. A boy he would know anywhere— _Keith_.

Shiro hasn’t seen him since he was fifteen years old and the shock of it has him leaning against the wall. He’s older of course—they both are—and his youthful features have shifted. He’s not baby-faced anymore with acne and squishy cheeks, instead his features are sharper and more elegant in a way that makes Shiro’s stomach flip. His hair is longer too, pulled back in a messy little pony tail with long bits falling down around his pretty eyes. Despite those changes there’s still a bit of his hair that sticks up in the back, the same as it did when he was fourteen and still wearing braces. 

He looks different, but also the same in a way that makes Shiro’s chest ache.

It’s been so long since Shiro last saw him that it almost feels like a dream. Those first few months after Keith left, Shiro had held out hope of one day seeing him again, but eventually Shiro realized that wasn’t going to happen. Shiro never begrudged him though. Given the chance, he also would’ve jumped at the opportunity to run as far away from the children’s hospital as possible and never look back. Shiro sure as hell had missed him though.

Mesmerized by the sight of a face he’s only dreamt of in recent years, Shiro finds himself rooted to the spot. He’s barely able to think and definitely unable to get his feet working enough to walk over to him and say hi. 

Turns out, he doesn’t need to.

“Black tea with six sugars for Shiro,” one of the baristas yells, setting his tea down on the pick up counter. It’s loud enough that several people look up, including the boy he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of.

Violet eyes fly up to his own and for one fleeting moment, Shiro forgets how to breathe. There’s a moment of dawning awareness on Keith’s face before Shiro hears a voice he never thought he’d hear again.

“Shiro.”

“ _Keith_ ,” he breathes, the name so achingly familiar on his tongue despite its disuse.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, knocking his backpack to the floor in his haste to get up.

Not caring about his tea waiting for him or the fact that he’s going to be late, Shiro does the only thing that makes sense in that moment and crosses the room to Keith.

Keith who is opening his arms in clear indication he wants a hug. Without even thinking about it, Shiro opens his as well and then Keith is slamming into his chest with a bit more force than Shiro expects.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Keith laughs, burying his face into Shiro’s chest as he squeezes him around the middle.

Shiro wants to say the same but his words won’t come. Back when he was younger and still wide-eyed and full of hope he’d dreamed of finding Keith again, of once again finding the best friend he’d ever had.

Shiro’d been in and out of the hospital for years the day Keith had moved into the room next to his. He’d been sour-faced and unhappy as his parents sobbed behind him. Shiro had waited until Keith’s parents left for the night before grabbing one of his contraband Kit-Kats he kept hidden inside of a stuffed lion plushie, dropped himself into his wheelchair and snuck over into Keith’s room.

Keith hadn’t wanted friendship or positivity, but he had wanted a Kit Kat.

The next night, Shiro returned. This time he broke out his big guns and brought his last Snickers.

What transpired from there was something Shiro never could have seen coming. He hadn’t been looking for a best friend, he hadn’t been looking for anything, really. But as a near permanent ward of Marmora Children’s Hospital, Shiro knew all too well how scary those first few days could be.

After Keith started chemo, he got quiet. Shiro was always there though, bringing in his Gameboy and the stack of comic books his grandpa bought him. Usually Shiro stayed way past visiting hours but since Shiro technically lived there too, the nurses never said anything. After a few weeks they started bringing Shiro’s food into Keith’s room at meal time or vice versa.

If Keith’s parents or Shiro’s grandparents thought it was strange, they never said anything. Shiro was always privately sure everyone thought one of them might die and was too afraid to do anything to make them upset.

Over time , Keith’s treatments started to work. But with a low white blood count and some minor secondary issues, he ended up staying in the hospital even after his leukemia was in remission. Shiro wasn’t so lucky. 

_”It’s not fair,”_ Keith had wailed, his scraped up knuckles fisting in the front of Shiro’s hospital gown the night they told him he would be leaving soon.

It wasn’t fair. Not even a little bit.

Shiro had dreams. Big ones. He also had a pragmatic streak a mile wide. He knew the survival rate for osteosarcoma wasn’t nearly as high as it was for Keith’s type of cancer. He also knew what the pain in his right arm meant even if his grandpa was trying to put off telling him. The chemo wasn’t working, the cancer had spread and fast. Amputation was what was coming—and coming _soon_ —even if no one wanted to say the words to Shiro.

If life wasn’t fair, Shiro at least had the comfort of knowing Keith had beat his cancer. Keith was healthy and was going to have a long life ahead of him. It was everything he deserved and more, and Shiro was so damn happy for him even if the idea of him leaving Shiro behind was going to break his heart.

By the time Keith was discharged from the hospital two weeks later with a clean bill of health, it wasn’t just an arm Shiro lost but a best friend. The best friend he’d ever had. The only best friend he’d ever had.

Being in and out of the hospital most of his life didn’t leave much room for making friends. Keith had been something special—a shooting star lighting up Shiro’s otherwise ordinary life. An ordinary life made extraordinary by the presence of one boy who’d changed Shiro forever.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Keith says, startling Shiro from his trip down memory lane. Keith’s still hugging him tightly, and if he’s not going to let go then neither is Shiro.

“Me either,” he admits, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of Keith’s shampoo. It’s woodsy and fresh, and Shiro commits it to memory.

Eventually Keith does pull out of the hug, though he stays in Shiro’s personal space—his hands hovering midair as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I looked for you,” he whispers, his eyes just as wide and open as they’d been six years ago. “I looked for you.”

A chill shoots through Shiro’s body at Keith’s confession. He never thought he’d see Keith again let alone hear those words. The idea that Keith never forgot about him has Shiro’s heart trembling in his chest like he’s fifteen again. In Keith’s presence he is undone, stripped back to the awkward teenager with knobby knees and big ears and a crush the size of the moon.

There is so much Shiro wants to say back.

 _I looked for you too. I never forgot about you._ But the words get stuck in his throat. Keith is really here standing in front of him and looking more gorgeous than ever. There were times Shiro thought maybe he imagined Keith being the prettiest person he’d ever seen, but standing in front of him Shiro is reminded that no, it’s really true.

Keith is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, and a million feelings Shiro hasn’t felt in years come rushing back. 

Shiro might be twenty-one and a full-fledged adult now, living on his own and mastering his chosen major. But standing in front of Keith he feels awkward and gangly all over again. He feels _nervous_.

What the hell do you say to the boy who made you want to keep fighting to live? What do you say to the boy who crawled into your bed when you said you thought you’d die before getting your first kiss and gave it to you. 

There are no words Shiro possesses in English or Japanese to convey how deeply knowing Keith changed Shiro. Especially not standing in the middle of a coffee shop late for an exam.

 _Late for an exam_.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shiro yells, making Keith’s eyes widen comically. “I need to go.”

Keith’s face deflates and it’s a knife to Shiro’s heart. “Oh, right. Okay. Yeah..no that’s okay.”

“No, Keith. No..I don’t want to leave. Fuck I don’t want to leave. But I’m late. Oh my god, I’m late,” he says, panic building. In his pocket his phone buzzes and he can only imagine what Matt is texting him right now. “Slav doesn’t do make-up exams. If I miss this...I can’t lose my scholarship. But—”

“Go,” Keith says, hands on Shiro’s arms. “You need to go. I get it. It’s okay.”

“Only if you come see me,” Shiro protests, stumbling as Keith tries to push him towards the exit. Keith’s a lot stronger than Shiro remembers, but Shiro is big and it’s no easy feat. Eventually Shiro does move his feet but only because he literally cannot lose his scholarship and Slav’s class is too important to fuck up.

“I’ll do anything if you go take your fucking exam, Shiro.” Keith is smiling and it makes some of the worry in Shiro's chest recede. The bell above the door jingles as Keith yanks it open, nudging Shiro with his free hand towards the open door. “Go.”

Shiro laughs, some sort of panic-induced euphoria overtaking him. Nothing is funny right now but Shiro is stressed out and unbelievably happy, and his brain definitely isn’t working quite right.

“You’ll come see me?” Shiro laughs again, and yeah he’s definitely delirious because people are staring and he just doesn’t care.

Keith stands in the doorway looking amused. “Yes.”

“Okay, good. Great. When?”

Keith’s lips thin and he looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Anytime, Shiro.”

“I have classes all day and a volunteer thing I need to do tonight but..tomorrow?” he suggests, trying not to get too hopeful. It’s a Saturday tomorrow, so Shiro has the entire day free. Technically he’s got three different papers that he was going to work on, but nothing feels as important as talking to Keith.

“I’m free tomorrow,” Keith says.

“Good. Great. This is..this is good,” Shiro says, and Keith does smile now, his entire face lighting up.

“Go to your fucking exam, Shiro.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Shiro laughs, but he’s not. He’s staring at Keith. Keith is so pretty Shiro doesn’t want to stop looking. There are holes at the knees in his jeans and he’s got a t-shirt on for a band Shiro has never heard of, and Shiro wants to know everything about him now.

“You are fucking not,” Keith laughs.

“God, you haven’t changed,” Shiro breathes, thinking back to the Keith he knew, always so blunt and calling Shiro on his shit. 

A flush spreads across Keith’s cheeks and he crosses his arms, leaning against the doorway. “I’ll carry you all the way to class if I have to. Don’t think I won’t. I carried your ass once and I can do it again.”

It’s Shiro’s turn to flush at the memory. After a particularly rough bout of chemo, Shiro had wanted to see the stars, but he’d been too weak to go anywhere without his wheelchair. Keith had put Shiro on his back and snuck him up the fire escape. He’d been smaller and almost two years younger, but Keith’s unexpected strength was matched only by his stubbornness. The nurses had lost their shit when they found them on the roof two hours later, hospital alarms going off and their parents and grandpa called, but it had been worth it. It had been so worth it.

“I’m bigger now, you can’t,” Shiro says, as if his size is the only reason Keith shouldn’t carry Shiro across campus.

“Yeah, you’re bigger alright,” Keith agrees, eyes raking over Shiro’s body from his head to his toes. 

Shiro’s not entirely sure what to make of Keith’s gaze but it feels appreciative enough that Shiro finds himself puffing out his chest and straightening his shoulders. He had a big growth spurt at seventeen and his high tech and very heavy prosthetic requires a level of physical fitness that Shiro is not above showing off. Not for Keith anyway.

Keith’s lips quirk up in the corner as if he’s aware of Shiro's posturing and it makes heat flood to Shiro’s cheeks. Keith was always so keenly observant.

In his pocket his phone buzzes again reminding Shiro that he’s pushing it. Even being Slav’s favorite student won’t save him if he doesn’t get his ass moving right now.

“I have to go,” Shiro says as he shuffles his feet backward, unwilling to take his eyes off Keith, lest he disappear and Shiro finds out this was nothing more than a wild dream.

“Yes you do,” Keith agrees. “And yet you’re not.”

Amusement bubbles up as Shiro chokes back a laugh. Fuck, he’d missed Keith.

“Altea Avenue,” Shiro yells, inching backwards, “the big white house at the end of the street, that’s me. You can’t miss it. Come over tomorrow, please?”

“Yes, I’ll come tomorrow. Now move your fucking ass and go ace that test, Shirogane,” Keith commands, crossing his arms over his chest.

The memory of Keith in much the same position, just a quarter of a decade younger and half a foot smaller flashes through Shiro’s mind. He has the same look on his face as he used to when he’d tell Shiro to eat after chemo. Everyone else handled Shiro with kid gloves, but not Keith. Keith never shied away from telling Shiro what to do when he thought it was what was good for Shiro. 

Time has changed so much, but it’s nice to see some things never change. Besides his grandpa, Keith was the only other person Shiro ever listened to. He listens now.

“Tomorrow!” Shiro yells, jogging backward for as long as he can.

“Turn the fuck around and run,” Keith yells, his laughter echoing across the quad.

It’s a beautiful sound, rich and melodic, and it fills Shiro with a burst of energy that has him sprinting to his class in record speed, arriving at the door at the exact second as Professor Slav.

“Ah, Shirogane. I see this is a reality in which my inability to find a parking spot is the same reality in which you were late for an exam which had you missed you would have failed my class. Amazing how the infinite possibilities of the cosmos sometimes intercept for one’s benefit isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, desperately trying to catch his breath.

“I’m quite sure there is a version of this reality where someone did not illegally park in my designated spot, forcing me to find a spot in student parking. In that reality you would be standing on the opposite side of the phone cord of shame.”

Shiro blinks, unsure how the hell anyone is supposed to respond to that kind of comment.

Unbothered by his silence, Slav continues. 

“Well, go on. Take your seat,” Slav says with a raised eyebrow and a strange twitch of his nose which Shiro absolutely has no way to interpret the meaning of. He’s not sure what the fuck a phone cord of shame is, and he definitely doesn’t want to know.

“Thank you, sir,” Shiro says, pushing the door open.

Every head in the classroom swivels up to Shiro as he slips inside, too big to make a subtle entrance. Matt’s eyes are wide as saucers as Shiro shuffles across the classroom and slips into the empty seat beside him in the very back corner as far away from Slav as humanly possible.

“Holy fuck it worked,” Matt breathes.

“What worked?” Shiro asks, shrugging off his backpack and letting it slide onto the floor before sliding into his seat. It’s a bit too small, his knees bumping the desk and his right thigh smashed into the metal bar on the side. It’s another reason Shiro hates Slav’s classroom, the desks are too damn small.

“When you stop answering my texts I panicked. I texted Pidge and told her to go park in Slav’s spot.”

Realization dawns on Shiro. “Holy shit, Matt. She’s gonna get her car towed.”

Matt makes a derisive noise, passing Shiro a pencil and a blank blue book. “Please, Pidge is smarter than that. She was hiding. The second Slav left to find another spot she hopped back in the car and moved it before parking security could give her a ticket. The only thing I didn’t know was if you’d ever get your ass here.”

“That was risky as shit,” Shiro says, accepting the pencil and blue book. “Slav hates when students park in his spot. But thank you.”

At the front of the class Slav begins speaking in monotone and Shiro feels some of his soul leaving his body already. He hates this class so much.

“Yeah, well you didn’t give me much choice did you,” Matt hisses. “What the hell kept you? And where the hell is my muffin?”

“Ah shit, I forgot it,” Shiro exclaims, disappointment welling up inside of him as he thinks of his cup of caffeine left abandoned on the pick up counter. His head is gonna be killing him by the time he gets out of this class.

The sound Matt emits is loud enough that even Slav notices, pausing mid-lecture about the exact size of penmanship he hopes to see people use in the blue book. “Anything you’d like to share with the class, Mr. Holt.”

“No thank you, Professor. I’m good,” Matt says, shooting Slav a two finger salute and a grin. Matt under pressure is a thing of beauty. A weaker man would’ve flushed or stumbled. Matt doesn’t even sweat.

Slav frowns at Matt’s clear refusal to be ruffled by unwanted attention. “Very well, try to contain you excessive exuberance from now on, Mr. Holt.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt says with a wink.

The face Slav makes is nothing short of hysterical. It’s only the fact that Shiro knows he’s already on thin ice that stops him from laughing. 

Matt waits until Slav turns around before kicking Shiro beneath the desk. “I can’t believe I saved your ass and you forgot my muffin.”

“I had a good reason,” Shiro whispers, writing his name on the front of the blue book. “And after class I’ll take you to eat. My treat.”

“Fine, but you’re taking me out for sushi and I’m ordering enough to make your bank account cry.”

“My bank account is always crying,” Shiro laughs, stomach already grumbling at the prospect of sushi. 

“That’s because you’re vain as fuck and spend too much money on your fancy shampoo.”

Shiro frowns, reaching up to touch the hair falling across his forehead. “I have thin hair, Matt. The salon shampoo gives it body.”

“If the two gentleman in the back do not wish to experience a universe in which they fail, they will cease their mindless chatter and pay attention,” Slav announces, brandishing a dry erase marker in Shiro and Matt’s direction in what Shiro can only assume is supposed to be a menacing manner but makes him look a bit like the leader of a three-ring circus.

“Sorry, professor,” Shiro and Matt mumble at the same time.

Matt waits until Slav is telling them exactly how sharp their pencils should be before kicking Shiro again, though Shiro's not entirely sure what for this time, and he ignores Matt’s attempts to get his attention, too preoccupied with the memory of Keith's smile.

It’s a smile Shiro would traverse universes for.

Shiro doesn’t have a god damn clue what might come of tomorrow's meeting, but the knowledge that he gets to see Keith again is motivation enough to get him through the hell that is one of Slav’s open-ended exams, even without caffeine.

* * *

Shiro’s hair is still damp, towel around his waist and his bed hidden beneath half his wardrobe when his bedroom door swings open.

“Jesus fuck, don’t you ever knock?” Shiro grumbles.

“Knocking implies I’m waiting for permission to enter. As your best friend I clearly have blanket permission to enter your room at all times. It’s in the handbook,” Matt says, raising an eyebrow at Shiro’s bed and dropping down into the computer chair instead.

“It does not,” Shiro objects, wading up the shirt in his hand and throwing it at Matt.

“Rude,” Matt deadpans, holding up the shirt to examine it then tossing it back onto the bed. “Besides, you’re being weird. I need to know why.”

“I’m not being weird,” Shiro lies, turning his back on Matt to dig through the pile of t-shirts. He’s already gone through them twice, but he’s hoping a third round of _what should I wear_ might turn up something perfect. Everything feels too casual, like Shiro’s just coming back from the gym, or too formal like he’s attending a fundraiser with the president. “Fuck, why is everything I own a polo or a tank top?”

“You know why,” Matt snorts, spinning in the chair and putting his feet up on the end of the bed. “So, talk.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shiro says, grabbing a pair of plain boxers and shimmying into them.

Matt lets out a low whistle as Shiro’s towel falls off and Shiro blushes despite himself. “Shut up you’re not even gay.”

“Just because I lean more heterosexual doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a nice ass when I see one, and you, my man, have a nice ass.”

“Squats,” Shiro says. “You should try it sometimes.”

“No thank you. I will gladly live a full and happy life with my pancake ass if it means I never have to step foot in the gym.”

“I’m telling you, you just need to find the right workout and you’ll see how much fun it is,” Shiro tells him, hands on his hips as he eyes his mountain of clothing.

“Shiro, you know I love you, but no. I can say with full authority that nothing in the world will ever make me willingly step foot in the gym. Now stop changing the subject and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“I already told you, a friend is coming over.”

“ _A friend_ ,” Matt sing-songs. “Bull fucking shit, Shirogane. I might’ve believed you yesterday when you told me over lunch but the ruse was up the moment I found you working out in the kitchen at two a.m.”

“I told you, I couldn’t sleep. I just—”

“You just had some excess energy to work off. Uh huh, so you’ve said. And now you just suddenly have the need to examine your entire wardrobe before seeing someone who is _just a friend_. Must be a really good friend.”

“He is. Or, well—he was,” Shiro says, reaching for a pair of joggers. They’re one of his smaller pair that sometimes chafe between his thighs when he goes running, but they do really nice things for his ass and his calves and he’s willing to suffer some thigh rubbing to accentuate that. 

“Listen I know you’ve got this whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going on and you’re not used to trusting people, but normally best friends talk about this stuff. I already told you I won’t be weird about it being a guy, okay? If anyone else gives you shit about it I’ll punch them in the fucking face okay and—”

“It’s not that,” Shiro exhales, unsure why he’s been withholding the rest of the truth. 

Matt’s right, he is Shiro’s best friend. Shiro had friends after Keith of course, plenty of them, but no one he let get as close as he had Keith. Not until he’d met Matt on the first day of college orientation. Matt’s over-the-top sense of humor was a sharp juxtaposition to Shiro's self-deprecating humor. That, and Shiro’s positivity was a nice balance to Matt’s pessimistic tendencies. They were a good match, and Shiro valued his friendship more than anything.

He’s also terrified to say his feelings out loud—afraid to say what Keith once meant and somehow lose him all over again.

“Then what is it?” Matt asks, dropping his feet to the carpet and his elbows to his knees. 

“It’s Keith.”

“Keith,” Matt repeats as if testing the name. Shiro can practically see the wheels turning and then Matt slaps his hands on his legs as he jumps up from the chair. “Keith, like first kiss Keith?”

Shiro sucks the side of his cheek in between his teeth and nods.

“Holy fucking shit,” Matt breathes. “Keith. Hospital boy Keith. The first love Keith.”

“I wasn’t _in love_ with him. I was only fifteen,” Shiro objects, even if he knows it's not the whole truth. He wasn’t _in love_ with Keith. Not then. He’d been too young to really know what love meant and too sick to dream that he might one day find out what it felt like. But he’d _loved_ him. He’d loved him so much. He’d loved Keith the same way you love a shooting star—a bright spot in one of the darkest parts of his life. 

When Keith left he hadn’t been surprised. He’d never dreamed he’d be able to keep Keith forever. At fifteen with a thirty percent chance of living past eighteen, forever was a luxury he didn’t have. But Shiro’s twenty-one now, his cancer in remission, and somehow the future is no longer a maybe. It’s a when and, just maybe, a _who_.

“This is fucking huge,” Matt says, starting to pace. “Oh my god, what are we gonna wear? Oh god, the living room is a mess and I think Kinkade still has the ping pong table set up in the kitchen instead of the table and—“

“Calm down, Matt.”

“Calm down,” Matt echoes. “I can’t calm down! This is Keith!”

Shiro’s not sure why he’s suddenly so calm, maybe just because he knows there’s only disaster ahead if they both panic. 

“I now deeply regret telling you about Keith. It was all the bottle of tequila's fault.”

“No you don’t,” Matt interjects. “But you will regret wearing any of this, it's not slutty enough.”

Shiro balks. “I don’t wanna look slutty, I wanna get to know him.” 

Matt purses his lips and turns his gaze on Shiro’s less-than-demure joggers. “You wore those pants for Kappa Sigma's wet t-shirt contest during spring break last year and won. Those pants are a thirst trap and you know it. In fact you haven’t worn them since—“

“Fine, fine I wanna get to know him and also get in his pants,” Shiro groans, covering his face with his hands.

“I’m so glad that we are in agreement. Now to find something that shows off your substantial, well—man boobs.”

“I hate you,” Shiro grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. 

“You love me because I’m honest, and if you didn’t wanna show off your chest you wouldn’t buy so many tank tops or spend two hours on chest day three days a week at the gym. Now where’s that flimsy excuse of a tank top that’s cut really low on the sides. You know the one that says Frat Daddy.”

Shiro chokes. “That was a gag gift from Pidge for my birthday last year. I can't wear that in front of Keith.”

“You can and you will,” Matt says, digging through the piles. “Why isn’t it here?”

“It’s not here because I am not wearing it. It’s too much,” Shiro mumbles, thinking of the shirt hidden in the back of his closet under a pile of old textbooks. The only reason he hadn’t gotten rid of it was because Shiro was physically incapable of getting rid of anything that had been a gift, regardless of if he liked it.

“Fine,” Matt sighs, digging through the pile of shirts. “And why don’t you have any jeans? I know you own some even if you practically live in sweats.”

Shiro clears his throat. “I tried them on but you know I’ve been on this new high protein diet this semester and really upping leg day and...and they were a little tighter than they used to be. I tried to do a few squats, you know to stretch out the denim and—”

“Your thighs split open the seams didn’t they?” Matt asks, as if it's the only logical conclusion.

Shiro hangs his head, hoping to mask the flush on his cheeks. “Yes.”

“All of them?”

Shiro nods, blushing further as he thinks about the three pairs of ripped jeans currently buried in the trash can in the backyard. 

“Well you know what they say,” Matt tries, “thick thighs saves lives.”

“And ruins jeans,” Shiro adds.

“Maybe you can ruin Keith with them,” Matt grins, wagging an eyebrow.

Heat floods Shiro’s face but he doesn’t deny the suggestion. Thankfully Matt is too busy rummaging through the clothes, throwing half of them back into the open dresser drawer as he mutters under his breath. Shiro’s going to have to empty and refold those later so they don’t get wrinkled, but for now he lets Matt do his thing.

Five minutes later Matt is turning around with a pair of grey sweatpants that are so thin and clingy Shiro usually only wears at home when he really wants to be comfortable, and an equally flimsy white tank top which Shiro has worn exactly once and once only—the wet t-shirt contest. 

If someone had asked Shiro on his first day of freshman year if he’d ever do a wet t-shirt contest at a frat party he would’ve laughed in his face. But college had opened Shiro’s eyes to the excitement of sometimes being a little wild and reckless, something Shiro had never had a chance to do growing up because of his illness. All the same though, Shiro still blushes every time someone brings it up.

“I’ve already got pants on,” Shiro mumbles when Matt shoves the clothes at him. “Besides those are my house pants. They’re, well—”

“They’re obscene and show off your giant dick, I know. The entire house knows.”

Again, heat creeps up Shiro’s back. “I like to be comfortable at home.”

“No one is judging you buddy,” Matt says, clapping Shiro on the shoulder. “You’re well-endowed in every area. Gotta let it breathe, I get you. I’m just saying, these pants are what you need to wear if you want Keith tripping over himself.”

Shiro wants to object, but Matt is usually right. That, and it’s already almost ten, which means Keith could show up any minute. It’s what Shiro gets for panicking and just screaming out where he lives instead of giving Keith his phone number like a normal person. Shiro has no idea what time Keith might show up, and the anticipation is making his insides feel like he’s hanging upside down on a roller coaster. Shiro is definitely running out of time trying to decide what to wear to make the best second first impression on Keith, which leaves him one option—trust Matt.

For a straight man, Matt is keenly attuned to what other men find attractive. Shiro has never appreciated Matt’s lack of toxic masculinity more than he does right now. 

“Okay, I’ll wear it,” Shiro says, taking the clothes. 

“I knew you would, you—” but he pauses mid-sentence, grabbing his phone out of his back pocket and squinting at the screen. He clicks his tongue, shoving the phone back in his pocket and inching towards Shiro’s door. “You should brush your teeth.”

Shiro frowns, tugging the tank top over his head and pushing his arms through the sleeve as he fixes his gaze on Matt. “I already brushed my teeth.”

“You’ve got bad breath,” Matt says, still inching his way towards the door. “Just trust me. Anyway I gotta, uh, call Pidge back. Yeah that’s it, Pidge. Just trust me and brush your teeth. You don’t wanna scare Keith off.”

Matt doesn’t wait for a response, bolting from the room and slamming the door behind him. It’s weird, but then Matt does stuff like that sometimes. Shiro’s at least ninety-eight percent sure Matt and Pidge are doing some illegal hacking with the satellite across town, but his best hope at keeping them both safe is plausible deniability, so he’s refrained from asking anything that he probably shouldn’t know. 

Shiro’s also pretty sure Matt was pulling his leg about having bad breath, especially since he brushed after breakfast, but he’s not willing to take that chance. After switching his joggers he pulls on a clean pair of socks and heads to the bathroom where he brushes his teeth _and_ uses Listerine—just in case. He also messes with his hair for longer than he will ever admit to anyone, including Matt, fidgeting with the floof in the front for so long if he looks at it one more second he might chop it off.

The nervous energy in Shiro needs somewhere to go. Normally he’d go for a run or do a quick circuit routine, but both of those would get him sweaty which would require another shower, so that's out of the question. He settles for re-folding the piles of laundry on his bed, making quick work of the running leggings and tank tops. He’s just about to get started on the t-shirts when it occurs to him that it’s quiet.

 _Too quiet_.

None of his frat brothers are ever quiet. Shiro’s dropping the shirt and sprinting across the room, yanking the door open. He’s halfway down the stairs when the sound of voices filters up and embarrassment pools in the pit of his stomach.

“What makes you qualified to think you can just show up out of nowhere and be friends with Shiro, huh?” That’s definitely Lance’s voice and Shiro groans, jogging down the stairs two at a time.

“I’m sure Keith here is a great guy,” Regris interjects. “And if he’s not, well—” he cuts himself off, making a sound effect that needs no explanation.

“I’m really not sure what the fuck is happening right now,” Keith says, confusion evident in his voice. “But I don’t really care if you guys like me. All I care about is—”

“Yes, what _do_ you care about?” Lance interrupts.

“Holy shit you guys, leave him alone.”

Not one of his frat brothers turn their heads, the fucking traitors.

“We’re not doing anything, Shiro. We’re just getting to know Keith here, aren’t we Keith,” Matt says, throwing an arm around Keith's shoulder and smiling. 

Keith doesn’t return the smile, shrugging Matt’s arm off. Shiro hops down over the second floor landing, heart racing as he tries to get closer. He can no longer see Keith through the throng of people blocking the front door, but Keith’s uneasy smile is burned into his brain.

“For what it’s worth, I like Keith,” Hunk says, lessening a little of the tension in Shiro’s chest.

“I like Keith too so fuck off, you nosy assholes,” Shiro yells, trying to elbow his way closer to the front door. Unfortunately, none of them listen. He doesn’t care if they tease him, but he will be damned if any of them make Keith uncomfortable.

“Well he’s definitely Shiro’s type,” Lance pipes up, “have you seen that explicit manga he keeps in his room, he—”

“Shut up,” Shiro grumbles, embarrassment flooding his body as he tries to use his size to his advantage and pushes his way through them to the doorway. “I hate all of you.”

“Aw, he’s blushing,” Kinkade laughs, nudging Shiro in the side. 

Shiro wants the Earth to swallow him whole. It’s a feeling that magnifies tenfold when he finally gets close enough to get his eyes on Keith and nearly trips over his own two feet.

Keith’s dressed in another pair of dark skinny jeans with holes in both knees. Jeans which hug his long legs in a way that makes Shiro’s tongue feel too big for his mouth. Instead of a band shirt he’s got on a plain red one, but it’s just this side of too big, the deep v-neck revealing the hollow between Keith’s collarbones and a silver chain around his neck. The shirt is tucked into the front of his pants haphazardly in a way Shiro can imagine was more practical than aesthetic, but highlights the flat of his stomach and the four buttons on his low-waist jeans.

"Hi, Keith,” Shiro whispers, unable to care that he’s being watched.

Keith worries his bottom lip between his teeth, ducking his head and grinning. “Hey, Shiro.”

“Alright, boys. I think this is enough for now,” Matt yells, clapping his hands. “We’ve seen all we need to see.”

“We haven’t seen anything,” Lance complains.

Hunk elbows him in the stomach. “Dude, do you even have eyes?”

“Yes, I do and, oh...yeah. Wow, yeah,” Lance mumbles.

Shiro’s not sure what that is supposed to mean, he’s too busy trying to remember how to form a sentence like a normal person. He’d seen Keith yesterday, but the memory is tied up with shock and confusion and nerves. Looking at him right now is like seeing him for the first time.

He’s so damn pretty.

“Right, we’re all leaving,” Matt declares, clapping his hands. “Right now. All of you. Chop chop assholes.” 

There’s a smattering of grumbles but they all listen, dispersing one by one until the only one left besides Shiro and Keith is Matt. “Well, it was lovely meeting you, Keith. Be good to him, Shiro’s a good one.”

Shiro rolls his eyes at Matt’s over-the-top antics, acting more like a protective parent than his best friend. “Matt.”

“I know he is,” Keith interjects, his cheeks going a little pink but his shoulders held high.

“I like you, kid,” Matt says.

“I’m not a kid,” Keith says, jutting out his jaw.

For some reason this just makes Matt laugh. “Oh, he’s feisty too. I like him even more.”

“Goodbye, Matt,” Shiro laughs, hands on his shoulders as he turns him around towards the stairs.

“I volunteer to be your best man,” Matt yells, running away before Shiro can respond. 

Shiro doesn’t need a mirror to know his ears are bright red, he can feel the heat in them. He’s going to fucking kill Matt later.

“So, you’re a frat boy,” Keith says, rocking on his heels as he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Shiro breathes, rubbing metal fingers over his forearm nervously. 

“I’m not sure I would have pegged you as the frat type,” Keith says, appraising Shiro.

“Me either to be honest, but Matt wanted to rush and I did with him and, well, here I am. The guys are great. I mean, they’re loud as fuck and they’re noisy and they’re kind of gross if I don’t tape a cleaning schedule to the fridge, but they’re good guys too. You know, when they’re not trying to embarrass me. I’m sorry for whatever it is they said before I got here, and also you probably shouldn’t believe a word out of Matt’s mouth.”

“So, you don’t talk about me like I’m made of stars,” Keith says without missing a bit, looking very much like he’s trying not to smile.

“Oh my...oh god. Matt did not say that,” Shiro groans, burying his face in his hands. That’s it, he is definitely killing Matt.

“He did. But it’s, uh...it’s okay. It’s cute.”

Shiro dares a peek at Keith from between his fingers. “Cute?”

“Yeah, you’re cute. You, uh...you were before too. And now you’re, well...really fucking hot to be honest. Cute too, but also like, wow. Really fucking hot.”

The praise shoots through Shiro’s veins like a shot of pure adrenaline and he drops his hands. “You think I’m hot?”

Keith snorts. “Like you haven’t looked in a mirror.”

Shiro tries not to puff out his chest too much as he lifts his gaze to Keith. “You too.”

There’s a flicker of surprise on Keith’s face, like maybe he really doesn’t know. Shiro wants to tell Keith he’s the most beautiful person Shiro’s ever seen, but it occurs to him they’re still standing on the front steps, and at least one of his frat brothers is probably hiding behind the stair rails eavesdropping. 

“Shit, come inside. Sorry,” Shiro says, stepping to the side. “I’m being a horrible host.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Keith says, stepping into the house. There’s plenty of room for him to pass through the doorway, but his entire left side brushes up alongside Shiro, making him bite down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to draw blood just to stop from whimpering. 

“I’d ask you if you want to sit down but—well,” he gestures towards the beat up couch in the main living room. “I steam cleaned it last week so it really is cleaner than it looks, but I also can’t promise you won’t find a condom or a beer can hidden in the cushions.”

Keith laughs, eyeing the beat up sofa with unfiltered revulsion. “Yeah, I’m gonna pass on that one.”

“We could, uh...go to my room,” Shiro offers, hoping that’s not too sudden. “Just to talk. You know, um, to catch up.”

“Okay,” Keith agrees easily, turning his eyes on Shiro. “God, you got really tall.”

“Yeah,” Shiro grins, and this time he definitely puffs his chest out too much. “I did, didn’t I?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something else when he hears whispering from the kitchen and he stops, frowning.

“Go to your rooms, right now,” Shiro says. It’s followed by more muttering and then Lance and Hunk stumble from the kitchen with their heads hung low.

“Sorry, buddy. Lance made me do it,” Hunk mutters.

“I did not, it was Matt’s idea!” Lance shrieks, looking more scandalized than the day he’d lost the wet t-shirt contest. 

“Where’s Matt?” Shiro asks.

“Matt isn’t here right now,” Matt yells from the kitchen.

“Matt’s not getting a ride to class on Monday if Matt doesn’t stop being a nosy fuckface,” Shiro says.

There’s some soft cursing followed by Matt waltzing out of the kitchen without an ounce of shame. “Wow, hey there Keith. Long time no see. How are you doing, buddy? Shiro being a good host? Has he told you about the time he was crowned Frat Daddy of—”

“Holy shit, Matt,” Shiro chokes, hands on Matt’s shoulders and he attempts to physically guide him out of the room. 

“He would be impressed, have you see the way he looks at you,” Matt hisses, surprisingly heavy for someone so small.

“You know I can hear you right?” Keith asks.

Matt laughs and Shiro groans. It takes a bit more pushing, but eventually Shiro manages to shoo the others into the kitchen, at which point he damn near drags Keith to his room. It’s not until he’s got Keith in his bedroom and the door shut that he realizes he never finished folding his laundry.

“Sorry, sorry. I, uh...I’m not usually this messy,” Shiro mumbles, grabbing the rest of the clothes and shoving them into the top of his wardrobe even though it physically pains him to do so without folding them first.

“This is really not messy,” Keith snorts from behind him. “You should see my room. Rockstar cans and papers everywhere.”

It takes all of Shiro’s strength to shove the mound of clothes into the drawer and get it shut but he manages, turning around to find Keith clearly examining his room. 

“You always were a bit chaotic,” Shiro laughs, dropping down onto the edge of his bed. “You used to leave the little foil lids from the grape juice all over your room. Your mom would mutter under her breath as she collected them and you remember what you used to say—”

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Keith finishes, grinning.

“Yeah and Mrs. Kogane used to tell you that you were full of it, so you made a spaceship out of those and some of the gloves. It was pretty impressive.”

“That was a good rocket,” Keith laughs, bouncing on his heels.

“Sure was. I always used to tell you that you were born to be an artist one day. You used to make all those doodles on your arms with a Sharpie or on the margins of the doctor's notes when they forgot them in one of our rooms. Do you still draw?” Shiro asks, eager to find out anything he can about Keith’s life now.

“Yeah,” Keith answers, nodding his head. “I’m, uh...an art major actually.”

“Seriously?” Shiro breathes, leaning his elbows onto his knees. He shouldn’t be surprised. Keith was always so talented, always creating something out of nothing, or breathing life into scraps of paper or the blank pages of his journal. Shiro can still recall how quiet he’d gotten the night he’d told Shiro if he lived long enough to be a real grown up he was going to become an artist. “That’s amazing. You...shit, Keith you’re doing it.”

“Yeah,” Keith laughs, voice low. “I guess I am.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Shiro says, before he can think twice.

Keith inhales sharply and the bottom drops out of Shiro’s stomach.

“Sorry, was that weird? I didn’t mean it to be patronizing or anything just—”

“It’s not weird,” Keith whispers, but Shiro doesn’t know what to make of the look on his face. “You always believed in me.”

“Of course I did. I knew you were going to be something special. You were then, too. Special, I mean,” Shiro clarifies. “To me.”

Keith’s eyes widen as he stares at Shiro, and it sends a flutter of nerves straight to Shiro’s stomach. Keith was never a quiet kid, and the silence feels odd. Shiro has to remind himself that this is a version of Keith he doesn’t know, not really. Before Shiro can apologize, Keith is the one doing it.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Shiro.”

The apology takes Shiro by such surprise he barely knows how to respond. “Why?”

“For leaving you,” Keith whispers, a quiver in his voice that pierces Shiro’s heart. “I left you.”

“Keith, you didn’t leave me. You got healthy.”

“I left you,” Keith chokes out, the pain in his voice so transparent Shiro feels the ache of it in his bones. “We made a pinky promise and I left you.”

“Keith.”

“I’m so sorry, Shiro.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I missed you, but...but Keith, I was so happy to watch walk through that door. You kicked cancer’s ass.”

Keith scrubs his hands over his face. Shiro’s pretty sure there are tears in his eyes, but he doesn’t mention it, fighting off the urge to hug him. There’d been a time when the chemo or the dreams got so bad Keith would sneak out of his room and crawl into Shiro’s hospital bed. But they’re not kids anymore, and Shiro doesn’t know if his touch is wanted.

Before Shiro can lose his courage, he rises off the bed and moves to his bedside table. He can feel Keith’s eyes on his back as he rummages through the drawer, searching. He’d gone out to the gas station downtown last night at midnight to buy it on a whim—hadn’t even been sure he’d give it to Keith today—unsure if it might be too much so soon.

It feels like the right thing to do.

Behind him Keith clears his throat and sniffles as Shiro seeks out his prize. He finds it quick enough, wrapping his metal fingers around the crinkling Snickers wrapper, and turns around to hold it out to Keith. There’s a moment of quiet before Keith huffs out a laugh, shoving his hand into his back pocket. When he holds his own hand out there’s a Kit Kat resting in his palm.

“You remembered,” Shiro says.

“Of course. I never forgot you, Shiro. How could I?”

Shiro doesn’t say anything to that. Now isn’t the time for self-deprecation or playing out the months he’d spent in a hospital alone enduring experimental treatments that left him weak and unsure. At his lowest point he’d been so afraid of being nothing more than someone left behind in people’s memories. Keith especially. 

“I never forgot you either,” Shiro says, waving the Snickers bar in Keith’s direction. “We should trade, these were your favorite. Or well, they used to be.”

“They’re still my favorite,” Keith says with a grin, swapping his Kit-Kat for Shiro’s Snickers.

The Snickers bar is in Keith’s possession for all of ten seconds before he’s ripping the wrapper open with his teeth just like he used to do when they were kids, robbing Shiro of any ability to filter his thoughts.

“I really wanna hug you.”

Keith pauses, candy bar halfway to his mouth and eyes wide. He cocks his head to the side, lips curling up in the corner. “No one is stopping you.”

With his Kit Kat held protectively in his hand, Shiro steps forward, opening his arms. The adrenaline and shock of seeing Keith for the first time the day before had overshadowed Shiro’s ability to appropriately soak up what it felt like to hug Keith. He’s soaking it up now.

The only thing stopping Shiro from feeling embarrassed about how tightly he’s hugging Keith is the fact that Keith’s got his arms wrapped around Shiro’s middle tight enough that Shiro feels a little breathless. He doesn’t mind one bit. 

Keith was smaller than him before too, but it’s different now. It’s so different. Gone are his knobby knees and gangly arms. Keith’s still smaller than Shiro, a fact that makes his heart race as he sees firsthand the way Keith’s body fits against his own—head fit snugly under his chin and face buried in his chest. Keith’s entire body radiates warmth, and he smells like sunshine and soap, and Shiro wants to remember this moment forever.

Shiro would happily stand in the middle of his room hugging Keith for the entire day, but Keith’s stomach has other ideas as it growls loudly.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks.

“M’fine. M’good,” Keith mumbles, face still buried in Shiro’s chest.

In objection, Keith’s stomach growls again, twice as loudly.

“Sure, and the dragon in your stomach is just bored,” Shiro laughs.

Keith sighs, pulling out of the hug with a soft frown. “I can just eat the Snickers.”

“No, you need food. Snickers isn’t real food. I know a place, if you’re up for it. It’s a little bit of a drive but—”

“What kind of car do you have?” Keith asks, biting off the end of the Snickers.

“I don’t have a car,” Shiro says, watching as Keith’s face falls.

“Oh,” he mumbles, finishing his bite and swallowing. “Me either. I walked here.”

“I didn’t say I don’t have transportation,” Shiro says, unable to stifle his own grin.

“What is it?” Keith asks, chomping off another massive bite of his candy bar.

“You’ll see. That is, if you’re up for a little adventure.”

Keith nods, swallowing. “I’m up for whatever you’ve got, Shirogane.”

* * *

“No fucking way,” Keith breathes, his eyes quite literally bugging out of his head.

“She’s pretty isn’t she,” Shiro says, fighting back a smile.

“Pretty. _Pretty_. That’s a Ducati Diavel 1260 S, Shiro. That’s not pretty, that’s sexy as fuck.”

“Yeah it is,” Shiro laughs, feeling giddy all over again. It’d been a crapshoot to build up his ride like this in case Keith wasn’t impressed, but it was worth it for the look on Keith’s face right now. The only thing Shiro likes more than his bike is showing it off.

“I can’t believe you have a motorcycle like this,” Keith says, dragging his fingers over the shiny black paint.

“Why, doesn't it suit me?” Shiro teases.

“Everything suits you,” Keith shoots back. He doesn’t lift his gaze to Shiro’s, keeping it on the bike, but there’s a soft flush on his cheeks that makes Shiro wish he’d worn less revealing pants. “I meant because of your grandpa. You always used to talk about wanting one of these but he hated them. He said they were death traps. I just figured, well...you know.” 

He shrugs as he trails off, but Shiro does know. He’s never done anything to upset his grandpa and he never will.

“He, uh, bought it for me actually,” Shiro exhales, flooded with memories. “After the cancer went into remission I qualified for the robotics trial for my arm. It was...it was painful. But it worked. I joked to grandpa that it meant I could have my dream motorcycle, but he never said anything and I figured it would stay a pipe dream. But then I got into school here, and the day I was set to leave he gave me the keys and told me to have fun.”

“Wow,” Keith breathes, dropping his hand from the back of the back. “So do you?”

“Do I what?” Shiro asks.

“Have fun.”

“Oh. Yes. Hell yes,” Shiro grins. 

“Good,” Keith says, eyes unblinking as they travel over the sleek lines of the bike and up Shiro’s body until they’re eye to eye. “Come on then, let’s see.”

“See?”

“Yeah, get on the bike, big boy.”

Heat floods Shiro and at least half the blood in his body goes straight to his dick. Keith’s expression doesn’t waver and Shiro doesn’t have a damn clue whether he knows what his words are doing to Shiro or not.

“Come on,” Keith urges, licking his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, Shiro.”

It’s a command that Shiro isn’t about to ignore. Shiro isn’t cocky by any means, but he’s self-aware enough to have some idea of what he looks like straddling his bike, of the appreciative glances he gets when he pulls up somewhere—he looks good—and he wants Keith to keep looking.

“Okay,” Shiro breathes, trying to adjust the front of his sweats as casually as possible as he throws a leg over the bike and leans forward, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the handlebar.

Keith lets out a long, low whistle of appreciation that sends every last bit of blood to Shiro’s dick. Unable to resist the urge to show off, Shiro pops the kickstand up with the heel of his sneaker, switching on the ignition and revving the engine.

“Want a ride?” he asks, purposely not blowing away the tufts of white hair that have fallen into his eyes as he gazes at Keith.

“You talking about you or the bike?”

Shiro revs the engine so hard smoke comes out the back. Keith’s laughter rings louder than the engine and the sound is so joyful Shiro doesn't have it in him to even be embarrassed. 

Ten minutes later, Shiro’s got Keith dressed in the spare protective jacket Matt usually wears and a helmet, and has thrown on his own because no matter how much Shiro might want to show off his assets in his tank top, he’d promised his grandpa he’d never ride without his protective gear, and Shiro never breaks his promises.

Lucky for Shiro, Keith’s gaze seems equally appreciative as he zips up the leather jacket and pops the helmet on. The extra ninety bucks Shiro spent on this jacket suddenly seems worth it.

“Well, you getting on?” Shiro asks, patting the back of the bike. “You’re going to need to hold on really tight.”

It’s Shiro’s turn to laugh as Keith slams the viser shut on his helmet and scrambles onto the back of Shiro’s bike, slipping onto the small seat behind Shiro. His thighs wedge up against Shiro’s, Keith’s chest to his back as Keith wraps his arms around his middle.

“Tight enough?” He asks.

“Tighter,” Shiro instructs. “We’re gonna go fast.”

The arms around his middle tighten, making Shiro hyperaware of every inch of his own body, from his upper back where Keith’s chest is practically glued to, down to his ass with Keith’s dick wedged up against it. Keith’s thighs bracket his own as Keith squeezes them, apparently taking Shiro’s words to heart and holding on tight _everywhere_.

Shiro flips the visor on his helmet down, switches on the ignition, and then they’re off. Unlike Matt, who spends the entire time he's on the back of Shiro’s bike trying to scream at Shiro and hold a conversation despite the fact that it’s impossible, Keith is quiet. What he is not, though, is passive.

When Shiro turns, body leaning into it, Keith leans too. When Shiro speeds up, Keith’s fingers clench in the leather of his jacket. And when Shiro—maybe possibly showing off a little—leans back and lifts the front wheel off the ground just a bit, Keith’s whoop of laughter echoes louder than the rumbling engine. It’s a shot of adrenaline straight to Shiro’s veins, and he never wants the ride to stop. The feeling of Keith wedged up against his back is so good that Shiro is not ashamed to admit that he takes the long way there, turning off the highway and taking them down the winding side streets so the ride lasts longer. Beneath a canopy of palm trees blowing in the wind, with Keith at his back, Shiro feels free.

By the time they’re pulling off the road twenty minutes later, Shiro is completely breathless and he’s acutely aware of the way his heart is beating erratically. Shiro loves his bike, but he’s never had a ride quite like this, and he knows it's because of the person plastered to his back.

Keith gets off the bike first, yanking the helmet off. Shiro’s glad he’s sitting down because Keith is a goddamn sight. His hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes wide and his face flushed. He looks exuberant, and gorgeous.

“Holy fucking shit,” Keith exhales, dropping the helmet onto the back of Shiro’s bike before running a hand through his hair. “Just wow.”

Yeah, Shiro thinks— _wow_.

“So I take it you enjoyed the ride?” Shiro asks after he’s removed his own helmet.

“I mean, it was an adequate experience,” Keith deadpans, somehow managing to school his features into a completely unimpressed expression. 

“Smartass,” Shiro laughs, popping down the kickstand and climbing off the bike.

“I am smart and I do have a nice ass, so thanks,” Keith laughs, tongue popping out from between his teeth as he grins.

He’s fucking devastating and Shiro knows he’s supposed to say something equally playful or joking but he can’t manage it.

“Yeah, you do,” he breathes.

Keith’s hand stills on the zipper, jacket hallways undone. It’s just enough that Shiro can see the hint of Keith’s pale collarbone where his shirt has slipped sideways.

“So, uh….where are we anyway?” Keith asks, clearing his throat as he fidgets with the zipper which seems to be stuck. “I don’t see any restaurants here. We’re parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. If you wanted to kidnap me there were easier ways.”

“Not exactly _nowhere_ ,” Shiro challenges, taking three steps forward until he’s intimately in Keith’s personal space. Keith lifts his eyes, licking his lips as Shiro gently pushes away his hands and tugs the zipper down for him. “And I’m not going to kidnap you.”

“Oh, uh...good,” Keith coughs.

Shiro smooths a hand down the side of the jacket, slipping his hands inside. Keith’s inhale is sharp and audible as Shiro moves to push the jacket off his shoulders, letting his thumbs graze over the delicate hollow of Keith’s throat as he pushes the jacket all the way off.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks.

“Are you always such a flirt,” Keith asks.

“Maybe,” Shiro says, unable to stay coy long, and eventually barking out a laugh, giving in to the urge to brush a strand of hair from Keith’s forehead. “Or maybe you’re just special.”

Keith’s cheeks pink further, gaze unwavering. “So, where is this food you promised me?”

“That way,” Shiro says, nodding his head towards the opposite side of the street.

Keith spins on his heels and Shiro can see the moment he notices the rundown taco truck on the corner tucked in between a broken down truck and a dumpster. There are two plastic folding tables set up on the sidewalk with beat up old white plastic chairs and faded rainbow umbrellas. From the outside it doesn’t exactly look like something you’d drive twenty-five minutes out of the way to go to, but appearances can be deceiving.

“I knew you were trying to kill me,” Keith deadpans.

“Where is your sense of adventure,” Shiro laughs, laying the jackets over the back of the bike then swinging an arm over Keith’s shoulder. He doesn’t shrug it off.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat it.”

“There’s the Keith Kogane I know.”

Keith doesn’t say anything to that, but if Shiro isn’t imagining things he leans his body weight into Shiro’s as they cross the street. Despite its unassuming appearance, there’s enough word of mouth that there’s a small line, so Shiro takes the time to point out the handwritten chalk sign hanging on the front.

“They’ve got asada, al pastor, chicken, and chorizo. It’s not Tuesday so there’s no carnitas which is a pity because I could murder like a dozen carnitas tacos right now, especially with their jicama slaw. Everything is good though. They sell them one by one, or if you can really pack away the food you save a buck if you buy them by the dozen.”

“Who can eat a dozen tacos?”

“Me,” Shiro answers, patting his belly. “I’m a big boy, right? I need to eat.”

“All right then what are you getting, big boy?”

Shiro does his best not to blush, unsure why it sounds so much more suggestive when its coming from Keith’s lips. “Friday Feast, it's a sampler box. You get three of each meat and then little cups with their salsa—tomatillo, fresh pico de gallo, and a smoky fire roasted negra. Oh god, and the roasted jalapenos and onions. Oh my god I’m so fucking hungry.”

When Shiro turns his head, he finds Keith watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What?” Shiro asks.

“Nothing, just...you never used to be hungry.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Sorry, that’s a mood killer.”

“Fuck cancer,” Shiro whispers, quiet enough the cute little old lady in front of them can’t hear him. It earns him a bitten-off smile from Keith. “Besides, I don’t mind. There are a lot of good memories from those days too, even if there were bad ones. It’s where I met you, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

“What not even—”

“Not even, no,” Shiro finished, unwilling to let Keith even finish that thought. “You were the best friend I’d ever had. I’d never change that, Keith.”

“Goddammit, Shiro,” Keith mumbles, breathing through his nose as he swipes at his eyes.

“Sorry, was that too much?” Shiro asks, resting a hand at Keith’s lower back to urge him forward as the line moves.

“No,” Keith answers, shaking his head. “Just...making a bit of an idiot of myself. I never cry.”

“I’m not judging you. Nothing wrong with feelings. Did you know crying can actually release toxins and stress? It’s healthy to cry.”

Keith sniffles softly, scrubbing at his eyes once more. “Why do you know that?”

“Therapy,” Shiro answers, elaborating before Keith can ask. “Grandpa made me go. After we moved back to Japan and I started the new treatments, I wasn’t in a great place. Therapy helped.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Keith asks.

“Good ones I hope,” Shiro ventures.

“Definitely good ones,” Keith confirms, opening his mouth as if there’s something else he wants to say.

“Next,” the man leaning out of the window yells.

Shiro slides his hand down to rest at Keith’s lower back, as they step forward.

“Oh, it’s you, Shiro.” It’s only then that Shiro realizes it’s Ulaz, the owner of the taco truck. Shiro's been so preoccupied with Keith he hadn’t noticed who was working today. “The usual then?”

“Hello, Ulaz. That’d be great.” He pauses, turning to Keith. “What about you?”

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” Keith tells Ulaz.

There’s a slow pause as Ulaz’s eyes dart between Keith and Shiro, as if appraising them. Shiro isn’t surprised. For all his gruffness, Ulaz is a people person. More than that, he’s got to be at least a little curious about Keith. Shiro’s been coming to this taco truck once or twice a week since he found it in freshman year nearly three years ago, and he’s never brought anyone with him, not even Matt. He’s not sure why. Something about this little hidden taco haven has always felt _private_ , a quiet space where Shiro can go away for awhile and have good food, some friendly small talk with Ulaz when he orders, and some quiet. As much as Shiro loves Matt and his frat brothers, they’re all loud as fuck. This place has been Shiro’s spot since the first time he found it, and he’s never wanted to share that with anyone. He hadn’t hesitated to bring Keith here though.

“I have something special I’ve been working on. It is not on the menu yet, but for you I will make it,” Ulaz says, scribbling something on his order pad. “You will like it.”

“Oh, thanks, Ulaz,” Shiro says, unsure what it might be, but sure that he’s right. Shiro’s never had a single thing from the taco truck that wasn’t delicious. 

“For here or to go?” Ulaz asks without looking at them.

“To go,” Shiro answers, already reaching for the wallet in his pocket. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Keith doing the same but Shiro is faster, flipping it open and pulling out two twenty dollar bills and sliding them across the counter before Keith can pay for his own tacos. 

Undeterred, Keith pulls a ten out of his wallet and tries to pass it to Shiro who pretends not to notice as he takes his change from Ulaz and starts to drop all the change into the tip jar in the corner, unable to see it empty. When his attempt fails, Keith resorts to very low tactics and simply shoves the money into Shiro’s pocket. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if Shiro’s joggers weren’t so fucking thin, but they are which means that as Keith slips the folded bill into his pocket, Shiro can feel all four of the bumps of his knuckles brushing against his upper thigh. It’s enough to make Shiro startle, knocking the change jar over and sending a cascade of pennies and nickels across the order counter.

Ulaz looks up with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look as Shiro stutters out an apology. Beside him Keith sounds like he’s choking on his own laughter.

Ten minutes later with his arms laden with a box full of food, Shiro has finally recovered from his embarrassment. 

“So, where exactly are we eating if it’s to go? Because last time I checked, you can't exactly carry a box of tacos on a motorcycle.”

“Guess you’ll just have to follow me and find out,” Shiro says, grabbing an extra handful of napkins and shoving it into the corner of the box.

“Okay,” Keith says, without another question.

The easy acceptance of Shiro’s request and the trust it implies sends a thrill through Shiro. He adjusts the box in his arms then begins to walk, waiting for the traffic to pass before they cross the street again. Keith follows alongside him, and Shiro can practically feel the curiosity radiating off Keith, but he’s quiet as he falls into step beside Shiro as they pass where his bike is parked and walk towards a wall of bushes on the other side of the sidewalk. 

As a teenager Keith was absolute shit at hiding his feelings, his face betraying his every thought if you knew what to look for. He’s no better now. The look on his face says very clearly that he is both confused and unimpressed, and it’s all Shiro can do not to laugh.

“Oh, uh...yeah, I’ve always wanted to eat next to a bush,” Keith tries.

“Fucking liar,” Shiro snorts. 

Keith exhales a laugh. “Yeah, I’m lying. This is fucking awful.”

“Good thing this isn’t where we’re eating. It’s through there,” Shiro says, nodding to a small hole in the bottom of the bushes where the branches have been broken enough to crawl through.

“You want me to get on my hands and knees and crawl through a bush on the side of the road to eat my tacos?” Keith asks.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, smiling.

Keith shrugs. “Okay, you first.”

“Hold this,” Shiro says, passing the box of food to Keith and dropping to his knees. It’s a tight fit and Shiro has to crouch as low as he can to the ground as possible to get through the opening. Shiro’s done this enough that he knows exactly how to shimmy through easily, but with Keith behind he moves a little slower, acutely aware that his ass is in the air as he crawls through.

Once he’s through he hops up, dusting the dirt off his hands and knees and squatting down.

“Alright, push the food through and then you come.”

There’s no immediate response, and for a fleeting second Shiro worries he’s gone too far trying to surprise Keith, but then the box of food is being slid through the hole. Shiro pulls it out of the way and then Keith is slipping through with an unfair amount of grace and speed.

“How do you make that look so easy,” Shiro laughs, thinking back to the way he’d had to wiggle to get his own thighs through.

“I’m small,” Keith grins.

Yeah, Shiro thinks. Small enough for Shiro’s hands to wrap around his tiny waist. Small enough for him to fit snugly against Shiro’s chest, head beneath his chin. Small enough—

“Holy shit,” Keith exclaims, breaking Shiro’s dangerous train of thought.

Shiro turns to see what Keith is looking at and grins. “Oh, yeah. Not a bad view, huh?”

“Not a bad view,” Keith mimics. “This is incredible.”

There’s awe in his voice, and it reminds Shiro of the first time he’d realized what lay on the other side of the bushes. 

“Yeah, yeah it is,” Shiro agrees, allowing himself a moment to truly appreciate the view. Sometimes he’s in too much of a rush to sneak over here and eat his tacos, instead wolfing them down in one of the plastic chairs that aren’t quite big enough for his ass. But when he’s got the time, there’s nothing Shiro loves more than wasting an afternoon hidden away watching the waves crash in the distance and the palm trees sway in the wind. He likes the way the hint of salt in the air tastes on his tongue and the way it feels to observe the world unseen. 

Keith inches forward, walking to the edge of the cliff as his eyes rake over the view. From this high up here there’s a perfect view of the coastline on the other side of the road. It’s close enough to the freeway below them that the sound of traffic buzzing by is unavoidable, but the noise is worth the unobstructed view. There’s nowhere else in town with this kind of view, especially not without hoards of college students or tourists eager to get a selfie or an Instagram-worthy shot.

Shiro knows the bushes are meant to keep people out, and they do a damn good job since Shiro’s never run into another person back here in all the years he’s been coming. 

“How the hell did you find this?” Keith asks, eyes sweeping across the horizon. 

He looks beautiful standing there, sunlight glinting off his tan skin and his dark hair blowing in the wind. Shiro’s no artist, but if he were he’d say Keith was something worth immortalizing. 

“The second time I came here it was so windy my hat blew off just as I was getting ready to leave. I was pissed off too, had to get on my hands and knees to get it back, but that was my favorite snapback, so I couldn’t let it go. Turned out to be a good thing after all since I ended up finding a lot more than my hat.”

Shiro takes a step back, moving into the shade of the bushes behind them and crowding into a little patch of grass and weeds in the corner so they’re not sitting in the dirt. He sets about unpacking the food, periodically stealing glances at Keith who looks rooted to the spot. Shiro wonders if that’s how he looked when he first came here—full of awe. 

By the time Shiro’s laid out the foil covered plates of tacos and divided up the cups of salsa and extra cilantro, Keith is making his way over to Shiro. He drops down beside him—hip to hip and knee to knee—and reaches for his plate. 

“So you like the view?” Shiro asks, nudging him with his shoulder as he dumps salsa on one of his tacos.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen the ocean. In person, I mean.”

Shiro nearly chokes on his taco. It’s only a life of his grandpa hammering home polite table manners that keeps him from voicing his shock until he’s finished chewing. 

“How have you never seen the beach? Garrison U is fifteen minutes from the beach!”

Keith clears his throat, poking at one of his tacos. He doesn’t answer right away, shoving some of the fallen chicken back into the tortilla before taking a huge bite. 

Despite his curiosity Shiro is patient, adding more salsa to his taco as he waits. If he remembers anything about Keith it’s the way he would clam up when pushed. If Keith wants to tell him, he will, and if he doesn’t then Shiro will accept that too. 

Shiro eats three more tacos before Keith speaks. 

“After my cancer went into remission we moved back to Arizona. When I graduated high school, Dad fixed up the old shack and turned it into an art studio for me as a graduation gift. I think Dad thought the art studio would keep me from going away to school. Not that they wanted to stop my dreams but things were different after you know? Sometimes I’d catch Mom crying when she thought I was asleep and Dad spent a lot of time in the desert. I think they were scared of losing me.”

Keith pauses, exhaling slowly. “Fuck, I’m thirsty.”

Shiro grabs the glass bottle of Mexican Coke and opens it with his prosthetic, grinning when he catches Keith staring. “Perks of having a metal hand.”

“That, and you look like a superhero,” Keith laughs, accepting the Coke and taking a huge swig. “And thanks.”

He pops the cap off his own tamarind soda and drains half the bottle in one go, aware his thirst has little to do with the tacos. 

Keith takes another drink before he finishes. “I told them I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do and ended up taking classes at the local community college. Ended up getting my AA while living at home and Mom and Dad were so happy to have me there, told me I didn’t need to pay rent and I could stay as long as I wanted but—“

“You wanted more,” Shiro finishes.

“Yeah,” Keith agreed, swiping away the condensation on the side of the bottle with his thumb. “I just needed to get out on my own. See what I could do, you know? I just transferred here. It’s my first semester.”

“I know,” Shiro agrees. “That was how I felt too. I almost didn’t come here. I didn’t want to leave my grandpa all the way in Japan alone, but he said if I didn’t go he’d never forgive me. Told me I was gonna be the first Shirogane to graduate college and to make him proud and have fun.”

“What did he say when you joined the fraternity?” Keith asks, moving on to the chorizo taco. 

“He said he didn’t mean for me to have _that_ much fun,” Shiro laughs, thinking back to his grandpa pretending to have a heart attack over FaceTime when he’d told him he was rushing. 

“That sounds like your grandpa,” Keith agrees. 

“Okay so you’re new to Garrison University this year which explains why this is the first time I’m seeing you. But it doesn’t explain why you haven’t been to the beach yet. Classes started seven weeks ago. You always dreamed of seeing the beach, it was even on your bucket list.”

Keith grabs his Coke and drains the entire thing in one go, coughing as he finishes. “Bad idea,” he laughs as Shiro claps him on the back. “Sorry. Just...it sounds pathetic, okay.”

“I promise I’m not judging you,” Shiro says. “Boy Scout’s honor.”

“You were a Boy Scout,” Keith snorts. 

“Okay fine, no I wasn’t, but I’m a good boy and I keep my promises, so you can tell me. I mean, if you want to.”

There’s a pause as if Keith is thinking it over. Shiro knocks his knee against Keith’s waiting for him to make eye contact before giving him a smile and his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Oh fine,” Keith laughs. “I don’t have a car, so I can’t exactly go on my own. And I just...I don’t have any friends here, okay. Everyone has their friend groups already, and has since they were a freshman. I’m not like you. I’m not someone everyone wants to be friends with. Most people don’t like me.”

“I like you,” Shiro whispers. 

“Yeah, well, you were always weird,” Keith mumbles, beginning to macerate the tortilla on one of his tacos as he talks. “Anyway, I can’t believe you remember that list. That was so long ago.”

“I remember everything,” Shiro says, unprepared for the sound Keith makes—something small and choked off. 

Keith sets his plate of tacos down on the grass beside him and rubs his face. “Are you just like this all the time?” 

“Like what?”

“Like...god. You don’t even know.” Keith groans, dropping his face into his hands. 

“I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing,” Shiro laughs. 

“It’s a good thing,” Keith mumbles from between his fingers. Shiro reaches out to pull one back, expecting Keith to clamp his fingers shut. He’s surprised when Keith opens them, dropping them to his lap. “So, you really remember that bucket list?”

“Of course. We made a pinky promise, didn’t we?”

“We were kids.”

“Yeah, kids with big dreams. We signed that list and made a pinky promise. It’s basically a contract.”

Keith pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. “Do you remember what was on it?”

“Uh, kind of?” Shiro says, grabbing his soda and taking a long slow sip as he tries to remember. “Something about a beach and ice cream and, uh—sorry that was a long time ago I guess I don’t remember everything. I’m pretty sure mine had something to do with going to the moon and bunnies.”

“You and bunnies,” Keith snorts.

“What? I like bunnies. Between you and me I still want a bunny one day,” Shiro says, wiggling his nose in imitation at Keith. “Matt’s allergic so I can’t get one at the frat house, but one day I’ll have my own place and maybe a little yard, and I want a bunny. They’re cute.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, “ _cute_.” 

Shiro suddenly has the distinct feeling Keith might not be talking about rabbits.

“You know if past us could see us right now I bet they’d be pretty impressed,” he says, unsure why his stomach feels like he’s stuck upside down on a roller coaster. “Tacos, a view, and you and me back together again. It might not have been on the official bucket list but it’s pretty awesome.”

Keith nods. “I remember what was at the top of mine. I just wrote _perfect day_. Real descriptive.”

“So what exactly would a perfect day be for Keith Kogane, huh?”

“This,” Keith answers, resting his cheek on his knees and turning his gaze on Shiro. “Just...being alive. Still being friends with you. Being able to go to college and be young and stupid and think about more than what my white blood cell count is or when my next round of chemo is.”

The feeling in Shiro’s chest intensifies as he stares at Keith. There’s a drop of salsa on his shirt and his hair is a mess from the wind and there’s dirt on his knees, and he’s easily the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen. The years should have dulled the silly teenage crush he used to have on Keith, but instead it's as if those feelings were merely buried embers, and now they’ve been unearthed.

“You’re staring,” Keith mumbles, and it’s as if someone has thrown a match to the flames.

Keith is gorgeous and kind and funny and knows the darkest parts of Shiro’s life. He can laugh about it where other people look like they want to cry, and Shiro wants to do all the things for Keith he couldn’t do when he was fifteen and broke and stuck in a hospital. 

He’s not even sure what he’s doing until he stands, an idea cementing itself in his mind. “That’s it, we’re doing it.”

“Doing what?” Keith asks, tipping his chip up to rest on the top of his knees as he watches Shiro.

“We’re going to have the world’s most perfect day.”

“Oh,” Keith breathes, eyes widening. Then with one single word he destroys any chance Shiro has of not falling headfirst into a volcano of his own feelings. “Okay.”

Pleasure settles itself in Shiro's chest, taking root as he watches Keith’s smile blossom.

“So, what do you want to do?” Shiro asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah you,” Shiro laughs. “Come on, hit me with your perfect day.”

Keith waits a beat, fingers tapping on his legs as he thinks it over. “Could we go to the beach?”

It’s such a simple request it almost shocks Shiro, who was prepared to max out his credit card or put six hundred miles on his motorcycle to drive Keith down Route 66 if he wanted. But if its the beach Keith wants, then it’s the beach Keith is gonna get.

“We can definitely go to the beach,” Shiro agrees. 

Twenty minutes later the rest of the tacos are now in their bellies and they’re cruising down Highway One at sixty miles an hour. There are closer beaches, easier to get to, but Shiro isn’t looking for easy. Shiro is looking to impress.

If Keith wonders why they’re passing exit after exit that leads to the coast, he makes no indication. He’s quiet on the back of the bike, helmet pressed against Shiro’s right shoulder and his arms secure around his waist.

It’s another fifteen minutes before Shiro exits the freeway, making his way through winding residential streets until he ends up at their destination—a small dirt lot surrounded by bushes, and no beach in sight.

Keith hops off the bike first, removing his helmet as he inspects their current location. Shiro is next, removing his helmet and jacket then taking Keith’s and securing it all in the saddlebag on the side. 

Without a word Shiro starts walking down the winding dirt trail, pleased when Keith follows.

“Are you gonna ask where we’re going?”

“Nope,” Keith answers, falling into step at Shiro’s side. “I trust you.”

A second wave of upside down roller coaster feelings hits Shiro as he breathes deeply. 

This is fine. He can deal with these feelings. He dealt with his crush on Keith when he was fifteen and he’s dated before. It can’t be that hard. 

Keith turns his face to Shiro, giving him a boyish grin, and Shiro nearly stumbles face first into the dirt. 

“Easy there, big guy” Keith laughs, a steady hand on his hip as he keeps all two hundred pounds of Shiro’s body from crashing to the ground as if he’s light as a feather.

“Thanks,” Shiro croaks, the warmth of Keith’s hand searing through the thin cotton of his tank top. “Ground is really unsteady. You should be careful too.”

Keith looks down at the perfectly flat dirt pathway but doesn’t correct him, merely humming his agreement as his hand lingers at Shiro’s side until they’re exiting the path onto, well—another path. This one is lined with trees, shade engulfing the long winding path along the now open coastline. 

They continue walking and Keith’s body continues to brush up along Shiro’s side, each time sending a new wave of heat through Shiro. 

Soon enough they’re at the end of the pathway, and Keith’s patience has clearly reached its end point as they stand facing the endpoint of a wooden fence, and nothing more than a set of railroad tracks on the edge of the cliff on the other side. Though the horizon is awash in blues where the sky meets the sea, there is no actual shoreline or sandy beach in sight.

“Alright, where the fuck are we going?” Keith asks, no bite to his words.

“I thought you trusted me,” Shiro feigns, clutching his hand over his heart as if he’s been wounded.

“I do, but this is...not a beach,” Keith says, shaking his head at Shiro with undisguised amusement. 

“We need to get over the fence. You, uh...you need any help?” Shiro asks, hoping he sounds casual.

“I’m good,” Keith answers, placing his left hand on the top of the fence post and basically vaulting over.

Shiro’s not sure if his heart or his dick is more impressed at the easy display of athleticism, but not for the first time today he wishes he’d chosen slightly less revealing bottoms. His only saving grace was his decision to wear his tightest pair of boxers beneath them to keep his dick in check.

Aware he’s being watched, Shiro puts a little extra swagger into his own fence scaling—climbing up onto the top of the fence post then flipping off the top. He waits a beat, almost surprised that he actually landed it before turning around to find Keith watching him with his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows raised.

“You trying to show off?”

Shiro clears his throat. “Depends, is it working?”

“Maybe,” Keith answers.

It’s impossible to tell if the flush on Keith’s cheeks is from the sun or something else, but Shiro allows the hope that maybe it’s from him to buoy him forward.

“We’ve just got to cross the railroad tracks and then go down.”

“ _Go down_ ,” Keith repeats, eyeing the cliffside.

“Trust me,” Shiro urges.

With a nod of his head, Keith follows Shiro as they cross the rocky ground beneath their shoes, over the railroad tracks, and out to the very edge of the cliffside. It’s a sharp drop down, but the absence of fence line and people means the view is nothing short of breathtaking, and Keith’s inhale is audible as he takes in the view—miles and miles of blue as far as the eye can see, dotted with whitecaps. Shiro gives Keith a minute to take in the view before he taps his arm, pointing to the left and the small path that leads down the side of the mountain to the shoreline.

It’s not what anyone would call an easy path, only big enough for one person at a time to descend, and rocky and uneven all the way down. One wrong move and you’d be at risk of tumbling down the side of the cliff which lay just two feet from the narrow pathway. It’s safe enough so long as you’re slow and careful, but just dangerous enough to dissuade casual tourists or those with small kids from hiking their way down. This small section of the beach is a verifiable oasis, especially during the hot summer months when the many beaches of Southern California are often packed to the brink—nothing but brightly colored umbrellas and bodies as far as the eye can see.

Here there are no crowds of families or sunbathers. There’s nothing more than the sea lapping at the shore and the sound of the waves crashing. In the distance Shiro can see one sole man walking his dog down the beach, but otherwise the area is exactly what Shiro had hoped it would be—deserted. 

“You wanna go first or second?” Shiro asks, glad he swapped his slide on Adidas for tennis shoes at the last minute. 

“You better go first. You might need me to catch you again,” Keith teases, inching backward so Shiro can take the lead.

“Oh yeah, how many times are you planning on saving my ass, Kogane?”

“As many times as it takes, Shirogane.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes that lets Shiro know he’s teasing him, but also leaves Shiro in no doubt that at least some part of Keith means it.

“Follow me,” Shiro says, eager for a distraction from the feelings that are growing stronger minute by minute. Shiro’s pretty sure Keith likes him too, he hasn’t exactly been subtle with his roving eyes. But there’s a difference between Keith wanting to be friends, and also maybe possibly thinking Shiro’s hot, to wanting more. The last thing Shiro wants to do after so long without Keith is to accidentally introduce feelings too early and scare him off.

Shiro needs to be cool and calm. He needs to be chill. He can do this.

“Lead the way, Captain,” Keith teases, playfully tapping Shiro on the ass to get him moving.

Shiro nearly stumbles face first down the mountain. 

He cannot do this.

Except, he has to. For Keith. Keith wants the beach, and Shiro is damn well going to give Keith what he wants.

Thankfully Shiro does manage to make it all the way down without embarrassing himself or needing to be rescued, which is a miracle as far as Shiro is concerned. Once at the bottom, Shiro hops down off the last rock and turns toward Keith, holding out his hand to help him. Keith doesn’t need help getting down if the fence jumping was any indication, but he takes one look at Shiro’s proffered hand and lays his own in it.

“Ready to have some fun?” Shiro asks, curling his fingers around Keith’s as Keith hops down into the sand.

“I’m always ready for fun.”

Shiro thinks back to their time in the children’s hospital and the small ways they managed to amuse themselves, and probably drove their guardians and the hospital staff nuts.

“Yeah, fun. The way I remember it, you were a bit of a troublemaker back when we were kids.”

“Excuse you,” Keith snorts, noticeably not removing his hand from Shiro’s. “I’m pretty sure between the two of us _you_ were the bigger menace. The only difference was with that angel face everyone thought you were the good boy.”

“You think I have an angel face?” Shiro asks, widening his eyes and batting his eyelashes at Keith.

“Fuck you, you could get away with murder with that fucking face,” Keith laughs, pulling his hand out of Shiro’s solely to playfully shove him. Shiro stumbles back, righting himself quickly and arching an eyebrow at Keith.

“You like my face,” Shiro teases, batting his eyelashes again.

Keith huffs out a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and his voice dropping. “Everyone likes your face.”

A surge of feelings smacks Shiro in the face, and he does the only thing he can—runs away from them.

“Catch me if you can,” Shiro yells, backing away slowly.

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, but before he can respond Shiro’s taking off at a full speed run, soft sand kicking up beneath his sneakers and the insides of his shoes filling with it.

“I’m going to get you,” Keith hollers.

“In your dreams,” Shiro yells, resisting the urge to turn and see how close Keith is.

Shiro continues to run, his legs beginning to burn. Shiro’s in excellent shape but he’s more of an indoor treadmill running kind of guy, and he always forgets just how much harder it is to run in sand, especially soft sand. Even still, he’s surprised when Keith’s body crashes into his own, tackling him to the ground with a lot of force for someone so small.

“Got you,” Keith crows, breath hot against the back of Shiro’s neck as he pants.

“How the fuck are you so fucking fast?” Shiro groans, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m an alien,” Keith whispers, dissolving into a fit of laughter. It’s infectious and Shiro finds himself laughing along with Keith despite having lost the race spectacularly.

When Keith finally stops laughing, he rolls off Shiro and onto his back in the sand, turning his face toward Shiro. “After my cancer went into remission I just kept waiting for it to come back. Every day that I woke up healthy I thought the other shoe would drop and it would come back. Mom convinced me to join the track team in high school to give me something to focus on besides the possibility of my impending mortality. Turns out I was pretty fast and I really liked running. Even after I left high school I kept it up. I like the way it feels to just...move, you know? To be the only one in control of where I’m going.”

“That’s how I feel on my bike,” Shiro offers, rising up onto his elbows. “Sometimes….sometimes when I can’t sleep I just get on my bike and follow the moonlight until I’m almost out of gas.”

“Sounds fun,” Keith says, face still turned towards Shiro as he squints at the sunlight.

“It is,” Shiro agrees. “Maybe...maybe one day I could take you.”

“I’d like that,” Keith answers, a smile forming on his lips as he closes his eyes and tips his face up to the sun. “It’s nice here. I like it.”

“Me too,” Shiro whispers, watching the way the sunlight reflects off Keith’s face. 

With his eyes shut, Shiro has a rare opportunity to look without being caught and he takes full advantage of it, eyes roaming over the sweep of the dark eyelashes resting against Keith’s cheeks, the sharp angle of his jaw and the long line of his throat. Up close Shiro can see two small freckles at the corner of his right eye and the paleness of the scar across his cheek. Keith shifts, chest expanding as he inhales deeply and it's all Shiro can do not to reach out and let his fingers ghost over the exposed skin between Keith’s collar bones where his necklaces pools.

Keith digs his hands into the sand and grabs fistfuls of it, letting out a soft little rumble of pleasure not unlike a cat basking in the sunlight. His pleasure is contagious, and Shiro scoops up some sand, letting it filter through his fingers and onto Keith’s arms.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, voice low and amused as he cracks open one eye.

“Nothing,” Shiro insists, doing it again and again until Keith’s entire elbow is buried beneath a mountain of sun-warmed sand. 

“I’ve got your number, Shiro. You only look innocent but I know the truth.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s the truth?” Shiro asks.

“You’re a fucking troublemaker disguised as a good boy,” Keith laughs, rolling away from Shiro and onto his hands and knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking the sand from his hair before sitting back on his and opening his eyes once more. If he realizes how intently Shiro is staring, he says nothing. “I wish we could swim”

“Why can’t we swim?” Shiro asks, copying Keith as he sits up.

“Uh, because we don’t have bathing suits,” Keith answers as if it's obvious.

“Are you naked under your jeans?” Shiro asks.

“What?” Keith blinks.

“I said, are you naked under your jeans,” Shiro repeats, pulling off his shoes and socks.

Keith’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, shaking his head. “No.”

“Alright then, you’ve got a swimsuit.”

“I have underwear,” he croaks.

“Swimsuit, underwear, they’re the same thing, just one is more socially acceptable. Besides, there’s no one else on the beach. The only person who will see your skinny ass is me.” 

“I don’t have a skinny ass,” Keith gasps.

“Then prove it,” Shiro grins, arching an eyebrow at Keith as he slides his thumbs beneath the waistband of his sweats, thankful he’d chosen a pair of black boxers and not white today. There’s showing off his assets and then there’s being obscene, and Shiro’s pretty sure it's too soon to have his dick on display. At least the black ones won’t get see through when they’re wet. 

It’s something Shiro's still thinking about as he rids himself of his sweats and tank top so he’s left standing in nothing but a pair of his smallest, tightest boxer briefs. He folds his clothes, carefully depositing them atop his sneakers when he hears a thump followed by a grown.

When he turns around it’s to see Keith—now shirtless—laying in the sand with his jeans around his knees.

“Are you okay?”

Keith groans, spitting sand from his mouth. “Fine, I’m fine.”

“”Okay,” Shiro says, trusting Keith to tell him the truth but unsure how Keith ended up on his back. “What happened?”

Keith’s eyes widen and if Shiro’s not mistaken his gaze focuses on Shiro’s boxers.

“My foot got stuck in my pants,” he answers, awkwardly kicking his legs rapidly as he attempts to rid himself of his jeans. It doesn’t work, but instead of giving up Keith doubles down, wiggling his body and kicking his legs. It makes him look like some kind of sea creature plucked from the ocean, flopping about on the beach as he spits out sand and grunts. He looks fucking ridiculous. And cute.

“Let me help,” Shiro offers, proud of himself for resisting the urge to laugh as his hands skim over Keith’s calves.

Keith’s entire body stills, eyes going wide as Shiro hooks his fingers into the leg holes and pulls.

“This would be easier if your pants weren’t so tight.”

“I like tight jeans,” Keith wheezes as Shiro tugs harder, his knuckles grazing over the arch of Keith’s ankle bones as the jeans are pulled free.

“Better?” Shiro asks, still squatting in the sand as Keith scrambles up, shaking sand from his hair.

“Yup, much. I’m fucking fantastic now,” Keith says, giving Shiro two thumbs up.

“It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to say something teasing when his eyes land on Keith’s underwear and he realizes for the first time exactly what kind he’s got on. He’d been so preoccupied with Keith in the sand stuck in his pants, he hadn’t really looked at his underwear.

He’s absolutely looking now.

Keith’s got on a bright red pair of lowrise boy shorts—thick bands at the waist and leg holes that highlight how goddamn tiny his waist is and how obscenely long his legs are. The underwear is snug fitting, practically painted on really, and sits low on his waist as it hugs his upper thighs. They’re so low on his waist that the dark trail of hair that starts just below his belly button and leads down is on full display, a little patch of curls popping out of the top of the waistband and making Shiro’s tongue feel too big for his mouth.

Unaware of Shiro’s ogling Keith turns his gaze on the ocean and all Shiro can think is _no, Keith’s ass definitely isn’t skinny_. Keith’s ass is a thing of beauty is what it is.

Despite his smaller size, lithe muscles, and slim legs, Keith’s ass is round and pert. Shiro doesn’t mean to think his next thought but it pops into his head without his permission, and once it’s there he can’t stop thinking about it.

With his dark hair blowing in the wind and miles and miles of tan skin on display, it’s a wonder Shiro isn’t the one faceplanting in the sand. Keith’s body might be smaller than Shiro’s (but then most people’s is) but there’s no mistaking the compact muscles hidden in his thighs and arms. He’s _strong_ and it turns Shiro on.

Shiro can’t help but wonder when the boy with the big eyes and knobby knees turned into the most beautiful person on the planet.

Keith turns his head, smiling at Shiro over his shoulder. It’s a big smile, maybe the biggest Keith’s given him yet. His eyes are crinkled in the corner and all of his teeth are showing, and he looks happy in a way that knocks all the air from Shiro’s lungs, hitting him with a devastating realization which isn’t how perfect Keith’s ass is, or how much Shiro wants to hold the swell of each cheek in his hand. It’s that what he wants to hold most is _Keith’s hand_.

He knows now it’s not just a shared history or a mutual attraction that’s got his heart aflutter right now.

Shiro likes Keith—really likes him.

No stranger to crushes or dating, Shiro still finds himself sideswiped by the affection in his chest. It feels too big, too soon, and Shiro does the only thing he can to avoid fucking it all up. He runs headfirst into the ocean.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith yells as Shiro sprints by, ignoring the chill as the cool water laps at his feet.

“I’m going swimming,” Shiro yells back, pumping his legs hard as he moves through the water—shallow at first before he reaches the breaking point where crashing waves pound against his knees and make the water frothy white. 

“Shiro,” Keith yells once more, but Shiro’s committed now and doesn’t turn around. He does lift one hand up in a little half-wave thing, trudging through the water until it’s waist deep before diving all the way under.

Cool water hits his face and soaks his hair as his body is submerged beneath the sea and for a few seconds nothing exists but the feeling of Shiro’s body as it moves through the water. Shiro’s never been very good at holding his breath so he’s not under more than ten or fifteen seconds before he resurfaces at the same moment a pretty decent size wave happens to be crashing. It floods Shiro’s nose and mouth with saltwater as he digs his toes into the wet sand beneath him to keep his place, spitting out the water and wondering if Keith has seen. It’s nothing Shiro hasn’t experienced before so he stays in one place, waiting until the wave has passed and the strength of the current subsides enough for him to move forward.

When he finally looks up, one thing is for certain—Keith has definitely seen. 

He averts his gaze for a split second, shaking water from his hair and trying to get the taste out of salt out his mouth. When he does finally look up again it’s to find Keith attempting to run to him. _Attempting_ being the operative word. He barely gets five feet in before he abruptly stops, hopping up and down in the water like a chicken as he tries to get the water off his feet. It’s cute. Even cuter is the little pout that forms as he slowly moves closer to Shiro, clearly not a fan of the temperature of the water. Shiro can’t hear him over the crashing waves but he’s pretty sure Keith’s cursing like a sailor. 

Shiro half walks and half swims back towards Keith until the water is shallow enough he can simply walk. Once he’s close enough he cups his hands around his mouth and unhelpfully hollers, “Water’s cold.”

“No shit,” Keith snorts, periodically lifting his feet. He doesn’t head back to the warmth and safety of the dry sand , remaining instead in the ankle-deep water until Shiro is standing beside him.

“Hi,” Shiro says, shaking more water from his hair.

“Hi, he says,” Keith grumbles. 

Awareness dawns, followed by a wave of guilt. “You were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Keith insists. He’s a horrible liar. 

“I’m a good swimmer,” Shiro tells him. “Besides the water isn’t that deep and the current isn’t bad. It just caught me by surprise was all.”

“Okay,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s still a little bit of tension in his shoulders and Shiro itches to get rid of the worry he put there.

“Do you wanna swim?” Shiro asks, holding out a hand. Keith doesn’t take it. Instead he mumbles something Shiro can’t quite understand. “What was that?”

Keith sighs heavily. “I said I don’t know how to swim.”

He feels like he shouldn’t be surprised. As much as it felt like he and Keith had shared everything back in those hospital beds, the truth is a lot of what they talked about didn’t involve the outside world. Sometimes it was easier not to think about the life you weren’t living. Somehow, it still surprises him .

“I know it’s pathetic.”

“Not pathetic,” Shiro disagrees. “I was just surprised.”

“I mean, okay, I can kind of tread water. It's not like I’ve never been in a pool or anything, but I was never a good swimmer and living in the desert it wasn’t like it mattered. But this isn’t a pool it’s _the ocean_. I’m not treading water in the shallow end and there’s no lifeguard.”

Despite the lost years between them, if there’s one thing Shiro remembers about Keith it’s his staunch refusal to ever admit fear so he doesn’t bother stating the obvious. Keith would deny it anyway. Instead, Shiro thinks back to when they were kids, and the way they used to invent crazy scenarios when one of them had to go for treatments and was nervous. Shiro’s favorite was the one where he and Keith were actually Paladins of Voltron—their favorite comic series—and the chemo was actually part of an undercover mission to thwart Zarkon and the Galra empire. Both of them knew it wasn’t real, but pretending they were fighting a battle bigger than the one raging inside of their bodies made things easier to bear.

He hopes Keith remembers.

Clearing his throat, Shiro stands taller. “Red Paladin of Voltron, I have a mission for you.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith asks. There’s a funny tremble in his jaw and Shiro can’t tell if Keith’s going to cry or thinks he’s lost it, but Shiro’s nothing if not committed. “The Blade of Marmora needs our help, Paladin. Our mission is clear—make it past the breaking point of the waves to explore the ocean and then return with valuable intel about the, uh...tides on Earth. Yeah, that’s it. About Tides.”

“Tides,” Keith echoes.

Shiro nods. “Yes, gravely serious mission.”

There’s a small pause before Keith starts to laugh. It starts off small—a little chuckle he’s clearly trying to hide—then it grows. The longer he stares at Shiro the harder he laughs, until he's laughing so hard he can’t breathe and there are tears in the corners of his eyes. For some reason this makes Shiro laugh too, makes him laugh harder than he has since freshman year when Matt accidentally made milk come out of his nose. Shiro’s not even sure what they’re laughing about, but it feels good to let it out. 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Keith says once he’s regained his composure.

Shiro shrugs as if to say it’s nothing, even though it’s not the truth.

“I know, it’s dumb but—”

“Black Paladin of Voltron,” Keith interrupts, lips thinning. He’s clearly trying very hard not to laugh again. “I accept the mission. What do we do first?”

Shiro grabs the back of his neck as he thinks. He hadn’t quite got far enough ahead to plan this part yet.

“We need to form Voltron.”

Keith’s eyebrows knit together. “How the fuck do we form Voltron?”

“Uh, my back,” Shiro says, blurting out the first idea that comes to him. “You have to ride on my back.”

“The mission requires a piggyback ride?” Keith asks, laughing now.

“Obviously,” Shiro says, kicking water at him for laughing. It just makes Keith laugh more. “You’re not taking this very seriously, Red Paladin. The fate of the universe lies on your shoulders.”

“Why is that so fucking cute?” Keith groans.

Before Shiro can answer Keith’s moving behind him, hands on his shoulders as he leaps onto Shiro’s back with ease. He’s doing exactly what Shiro told him to. The problem is, Shiro didn’t exactly think through what it would feel like to have Keith’s long legs wrapped around his waist, or Keith’s almost-naked body pressed up against his back. Shiro’s only saving grace at the moment is that the water is too cold for his dick to get fully hard and expose him.

“Giddy up,” Keith says, reaching down to slap Shiro’s ass.

“I’m not a horse,” Shiro snorts.

“Sorry,” Keith says, not sounding sorry at all as he loops his arms around Shiro’s neck and rests his chin on Shiro’s head. “So you’re sure you can carry me?”

“Of course I am,” Shiro says, beginning to trudge through the shallow water back towards the cresting waves. Despite Shiro’s embarrassing misstep in the beginning, the truth is the worst of it is just where the water is about waist deep. On the other side of the breaking point for the waves Shiro sees nothing but smooth water dotted in small whitecaps. All he needs to do is get him and Keith through the surf zone and out to the other side. Then it'll be nothing but smooth water ahead. 

They forget the Paladin thing about the time the waves start breaking around Shiro’s middle and Keith’s hold on Shiro turns into a death grip.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Shiro says, as confident as his abilities in the water as he is that he’d rather die than let anything happen to Keith. That and Shiro’s been to the beach enough in the last few years to feel confident that there’s nothing to worry about today. The current is easy and there’s no undertow. The only thing they really need to contend with is Keith’s nervousness, and Shiro knows if Keith can get onto the other side of the waves he will be fine. Or at least, Shiro hopes he will.

Thankfully it’s as easy as Shiro expects, and barring a mouth full of saltwater he accidentally swallows, they make it to the other side. The water here rolls slowly around them from the wind, but is relatively still all things considered. 

“See, told you,” Shiro says, dragging his hands over the surface of the water. “It’s like a pool.” 

“Yeah, if a pool had a sandy bottom and unknown ocean creatures possibly swimming around. You can’t even see your feet, how do you know what the hell is down there?” Keith asks, chin on Shiro’s shoulder now and his legs still wrapped firmly around Shiro’s waist. 

“I mean, you don’t,” Shiro laughs. “I just try not to think about it.”

Keith makes a derisive sound, legs slipping from around Shiro’s waist as he slides down into the sea. 

“Fuck, it;s still cold,” Keith hisses as his feet hit bottom, the water all the way up to his shoulders like this.

“You get used to it,” Shiro tells him. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Keith says, not bothering to hide his skepticism. 

“You wanna try swimming out here or just stay in one place?” Shiro asks.

“I don’t know, I—” but he cuts off, letting out a high-pitched scream as he jumps. “Something touched my leg.”

“What do you mean something touched your leg? Was it seaweed or a fish?” Shiro asks, eyes darting over the water as if his intense concentration could somehow increase water visibility. 

“How the fuck should I know, I can’t see my feet remember,” Keith swore, inching his way towards Shiro. “Are there sharks here?”

“Uh, no?” Shiro answers, eyes darting up and down from Keith’s panicky face to the shimmering surface of the water. 

“You really don’t sound very confident,” Keith groans.

“I mean, no. No. Or, well, not usually. You get them off the coast of Huntington Beach sometimes and—”

“Something touched my leg again,” Keith screeches, grabbing Shiro’s arms as he scrambles his way up onto Shiro’s back once more.

“It was probably just seaweed,” Shiro says. “Or a fish.”

Keith huffs, breath hot against the side of Shiro’s face. “ _Probably._ ”

“I mean I can’t see so I don’t know for sure but—” Shiro cuts off as something brushes up against his calf. 

“But what?” Keith asks, peering over Shiro’s shoulder.

“But, uh...let’s just head back to the shore,” Shiro answers as the _something_ brushes his leg again. It’s probably not a shark, but it's also definitely not seaweed. Not that Shiro plans on telling that to Keith—yet.

If Keith has any objections he doesn’t voice them, arms winding their way loosely around Shiro’s neck as Shiro reaches back to grip Keith’s thighs. Keith’s got a good enough grip on Shiro that he’s unlikely to slip off, even moving back through the crashing waves, but Shiro isn’t going to take any chances. He’s also not about to miss an opportunity to get his hands on Keith.

It takes Shiro longer than it should to make it back to the shore, distracted enough by Keith on his back for a second time he nearly faceplants into the ocean. Thankfully he manages to save them both from getting saltwater up their nose and gets them back to the shore where they each sprawl out on their backs in the warm, dry sand.

For a long time they don’t talk, content to lay back under the heat of the sun and let it air dry them as they listen to the sounds of the crashing waves. Occasionally Shiro will turn his gaze on Keith, but every time Keith’s got his eyes closed and his hands buried in the sand as he breathes in the sea air. 

Keith’s dark hair is splayed out all over the white sand and his skin is covered in a sheen of water and rapidly drying sand. His lips are full, mouth falling open as he breathes deeply. Shiro almost feels guilty for staring so hard but he can’t make himself stop. He’s the most beautiful thing Shiro’s ever seen. Shiro used to watch Keith in the hospital too sometimes when Keith fell asleep after a particularly nasty round of chemo but didn’t want to be alone. Shiro would stay, curled up in one the horrible little hospital chairs as the little television mounted on the wall provided white noise. He never paid attention to what was actually on the T.V., only to the boy in the bed—the way his dark hair looked splayed across the harsh white pillowcase and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At first the nurses tried to get Shiro and Keith back to their respective rooms when they caught them out of bed, but after a few months they gave up trying since he and Keith always snuck back out when the nurses switched shifts.

Back then Shiro was afraid to look away in case he lost Keith when he wasn’t looking—stolen looks riddled with confusion and fear about the feelings he didn’t understand for a boy that was never going to be able to be his forever. Now he can’t look away for entirely different reasons.

Keith is nothing short of radiant basking in the sun, calmness rolling off him in waves. It makes Shiro’s chest ache, makes him feel fifteen and afraid all over again. This is all he ever wanted for Keith, all he ever wanted for his best friend in the entire world. And now Keith has it. Now Keith is healthy and safe. He’s _happy_.

It makes Shiro happy too. He’s always loved the beach for his own reasons, but being able to show it to Keith and see the effect it has on him renews Shiro’s love for it. Unwilling to voice any of these thoughts aloud and risk disturbing Keith’s well-earned bliss, he keeps them inside as he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose. The sun is warm on his skin, the sound of the waves crashing melodic, and best of all Shiro is here with Keith.

Whatever else happens today he knows it’s already been the perfect day. For him. He’s not so sure about Keith.

He needs to be sure.

“What else would make this day perfect?” Shiro asks, a little sand getting in his ear as he turns his head to look at Keith.

It takes Keith a few seconds to turn his face towards Shiro, a few more to crack his eyes open. He looks like he’s half asleep. “Hmmm?”

The urge to reach out and touch Keith proves too strong for Shiro to resist. He rolls onto his left side, raising himself up onto his elbow as he reaches out to brush the hair off Keith’s forehead and out of his eyes. Keith blinks, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he eyes Shiro.

“I asked what else you wanted to do today, to make it perfect?”

Again Keith waits to answer, clearly relaxed as he remains spread out like a jellyfish in the sand. He doesn’t look like he will ever move and Shiro tucks away the information, determined to remember a blanket next time he brings Keith to the beach so they can spend hours in the sun napping without getting sand in their asses. Maybe even an umbrella too if he can borrow Hunk’s Jeep instead of using his motorcycle. And a picnic. Keith might like a picnic. He’s definitely going to need the Jeep.

“It’s pretty fucking great right now,” Keith answers, interrupting Shiro’s spiraling tendency to think too far ahead.

“Yeah, but like...perfect. Today’s supposed to be the perfect day. If you could have anything in the world what would you want?” Shiro asks, leaning up so that his body blocks the sun from Keith’s face.

“Anything?” Keith asks, licking his lips.

“Anything,” Shiro agrees.

“What if I wanted you to take me to space?”

Shiro lets out a long, low whistle. Somehow he hadn’t expected Keith to shoot so big. He racks his brain for anything close when he remembers the new space installation art at LACMA. If they got on his bike right now they could be in Los Angeles in a few hours depending on traffic. It’d be worth it to make Keith smile. 

“I could make it happen,” Shiro answers, already trying to figure out how much gas he’ll need for the trip. “Is that what you want?”

“You just...what the fuck, Shiro?” Keith groans. He doesn’t look angry, just confused. “People don’t just...do anything to make someone else happy.”

“Well they should,” Shiro answers with a shrug. “We spent long enough being afraid. We deserve this. _You_ deserve this. I want to give you what you want.”

Keith’s gaze lingers on Shiro’s face, his breathing slow. Shiro wishes he could read Keith’s mind. There was a time Shiro always knew what Keith was thinking. He doesn’t know now. There’s a hunger in Keith’s eyes, a longing. Shiro’s just not sure what it’s for. 

“Do you still like ice cream?” Shiro asks.

“Ice cream,” Keith echoes.

“Yeah, ice cream. There’s this place downtown that makes their own ice cream. Dairy comes from a local farm. It’s all made in small batches. It’s the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth. They have really crazy flavors too. Last month it was carrot habanero and the month before that was a maple bacon which, okay I know it sounds weird but trust me it was delicious.”

He stops, hyperaware that Keith is staring at him with an unreadable expression. It makes his stomach flip flop with nerves. It’s ridiculous because Shiro’s never been nervous in front of Keith—or any boy—before, but he is now.

Keith’s smart and pretty and special, and Shiro is absolutely fucking terrified of messing things up.

“Sorry, that’s lame isn’t it?”

“I love ice cream,” Keith whispers, raising himself up onto his elbows so that his face is only a few inches from Shiro’s. 

Keith’s so close, the heat radiating off his skin and his big eyes staring at Shiro. There’s bits of sand, now dried from the sun, falling from his hair like raindrops and the barest hint of a sunburn across the bridge of his nose. If Shiro leaned forward just a little bit their lips would press together. It’s not hard to imagine how soft and warm Keith’s lips would be or the way their slightly chapped surface would feel against his own.

Without even meaning to Shiro finds himself inching closer, his eyes halfway to shut when reality hits Shiro. This day is for Keith and what Keith wants. Shiro needs to calm the fuck down and have some self-control. He’s supposed to be giving Keith the perfect day.

“So, ice cream,” Shiro mumbles, clearing his throat as he sits up.

Keith huffs out a laugh, collapsing back on the sand. “Yeah, Shiro, ice cream.” 

It takes a while for them to get clean and dressed without a towel, but they manage. The trek up the narrow trail turns out to be even more difficult on the way up than it was on the way down, something Shiro attributes to having Keith’s ass in his face. He trips twice, blaming it on the gnarled roots and uneven terrain. If Keith suspects otherwise he says nothing.

The trip to the ice cream parlor across town takes twice as long as it should because of traffic. Shiro’s only saving grace there is the fact that a motorcycle can easily weave in and out of traffic, so at least they’re not stuck going five miles an hour on the 101. It’s been hours since they had tacos and his belly is empty. He almost regrets needing to take Keith to the artisan ice cream place half an hour from the beach instead of just getting ice cream anywhere. He reminds himself it’ll be worth it though. This is supposed to be the perfect day which means he can’t just get Keith any ice cream, it needs to be _the best_ ice cream.

By the time they’re nearing the ice cream shop, Shiro can practically taste the cold sweet ice cream on his tongue and the growling of his stomach is masked only by the rumble of his bike. His head is sweaty inside his helmet, his arms feel burned from hours on the beach and his bike. Hell, even his thighs and ass are sweaty. 

Shiro parks his bike at the end of the street, waiting for Keith to hop off before doing the same then yanking off his helmet and breathing a sigh of relief as he finally gets some fresh air on his face. Granted it's middle of the city fresh air, and this far from the coastline the air is more stifling than fresh—heat coming off the asphalt beneath them in waves.

“It got hotter,” Keith observes, stealing the words from Shiro’s mouth as he unzips his jacket. There are sweat stains at his pits and rivulets of sweat dripping down his neck and his hair is plastered to his forehead. 

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, again regretting taking them so far from the beach. He hadn’t thought ahead to how much warmer it would be. _Ice cream_ , he reminds himself. This will be worth it for the ice cream.

“I think I’m gonna need a double scoop,” Keith laughs.

“I’ll buy you a triple,” Shiro tells him, pretty sure that’s what he’s getting too. At this point Shiro’s so fucking hot he wants to shove his face into his ice cream. 

“Any idea what flavor you’re gonna get?” Keith asks him as they make their way down the sidewalk. “You know, since you’ve been before.”

“Not really,” he answers. “The flavors are usually different. They had this pistachio and lavender flavor the first time I came here that was basically the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I keep hoping they’ll have it again, but so far I haven’t been lucky enough to see it again.”

“Maybe today will be our lucky day,” Keith grins, hip checking Shiro as he steps out of the way of a man walking a dog the size of a bear.

“Maybe it will. I already have you and— _no_.”

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks.

“It’s _closed_ ,” Shiro all but wails, jabbing his metal thumb towards the hand written sign in the window that reads _Sorry, out of ice cream today. Come back tomorrow._

Shiro wants to cry. It’s just ice cream, but he’s hot and sweaty and he dragged Keith twenty miles from the blissful oasis of the beach with the promise of the best ice cream ever.

“Oh, damn.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, trying to figure out how to save the day before it gets ruined. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Shiro, you don’t need to apologize. It’s not your fault they ran out of ice cream.”

“I promised you the best ice cream,” Shiro sighs as he grabs the back of his neck, biting back a wince as he realizes it’s sunburned. Shiro loves California, but sometimes he really fucking hates the sun, especially when he forgets sunscreen. 

“It’s fine, I don’t really need ice cream anyway. I’m still full from tacos,” Keith tells him with an easy smile.

Despite the small part of Shiro’s brain that thinks Keith might be lying to spare his feelings, he wants to believe Keith. 

“Okay, but I’ve still got to think of something else to make today perfect.”

“Shiro, today is al—fuck,” Keith yells, jumping nearly six inches off the sidewalk as he claps a hand to his shoulder.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I just—ow, fuck, ow it hurt,” Keith winces.

“Can I see?” Shiro asks, already reaching out.

Keith grimaces but loosens his death grip when Shiro’s metal fingers brush over his knuckles allowing Shiro to carefully peel back Keith’s fingers from his bicep. Beneath his hand the skin is already turning red with a small bump, and in the center a stinger. 

“It was a bee,” Shiro observes.

Keith turns his head to stare at his shoulder, frowning when he notices the stinger still in his arm. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Shiro deflates. Not just a bee sting but the first time he’s ever been stung. Shit. Just when Shiro thought things couldn’t get worse.

“You don’t have any chest tightness or anything do you?” Shiro asks, wanting to make sure Keith’s not allergic.

Keith shakes his head. “Just stings.”

“Good. That’s good. We still need to get the stinger out though. I’m gonna scrape my nail over to pull it out, okay?”

“Okay.”

There’s no real way to be gentle and get the stinger out so Shiro goes for speed, lifting his left hand to draw his thumb nail down over the bump. Keith grits his teeth, emitting a tiny wince that pierces through Shiro’s heart worse than if he’d done it loudly. Keith always was the type to pretend nothing hurt. He never even complained about chemo even when he was throwing up into the trash can. 

The stinger pops out easily, falling to the ground. Shiro stamps on it with his sneaker with more force than is really necessary, smashing it into the cement.

Whatever other plans Shiro wanted to make fall to the wayside. “You should probably ice this.”

“I’m fine,” Keith says, his smile more of a grimace.

Shiro hums something noncommittal. Keith’s definition of fine is not to be trusted, but Shiro knows better than saying that out loud and risking Keith getting defensive.

“You could come back to my place. There might be some ice cream sandwiches hidden in the back of the freezer if none of the guys have found them yet, and then we can put some ice on your arm,” Shiro offers. It’s not the perfect ice cream or the perfect anything, but there’s not much Shiro can do to change that. “There’s a hammock in the backyard. We could, uh...you know—sit together.”

“You think we’ll both fit in one hammock?” Keith asks.

“Might be a tight fit but we could squeeze in,” Shiro grins, feeling ridiculous for the way his heart races at the idea. He helped Matt hang the hammock a few weeks ago and though he’s only been in it twice, the idea of wedging himself into the hammock and swinging beneath the shade of the big avocado trees in the backyard with Keith sounds like heaven. 

Shiro closes his eyes and imagines it—the sound of the breeze flitting through the leaves, the feel of it on his skin, and Keith’s body atop his own. Things are definitely not going how Shiro planned, but this is a good idea. This could turn things around.

When Shiro opens his eyes it’s to find Keith watching him with an unmistakably fond smile that sends a flurry of butterflies into Shiro’s chest. 

“We should go,” Shiro coughs, hoping he’s not blushing as bad as it feels like he is. “You know, for your arm. Gotta ice the arm.”

He snaps his mouth shut to keep from rambling as Keith’s smile widens.

“Okay, Shiro. Whatever you say.”

Keith’s easy agreement makes heat pool in Shiro’s belly. And his dick. And his face. He’s definitely blushing now and if he doesn’t hurry up and get them home his stupid dick will be hard enough that riding his motorcycle will be more than a little uncomfortable.

Without a word Shiro throws an arm around Keith’s shoulder, careful to avoid the bee sting as he leads him back to the bike. Putting the helmets and sweaty protective gear back on so soon is a new form of torture, and the only reason Shiro manages to keep a smile on his face is the promise of a shady hammock ride with Keith and the last few ice cream sandwiches he hid in the freezer beneath a bag of frozen peas.

The drive back to his frat house is smooth enough and despite the remnants from the tail end of rush hour traffic, they make it to Shiro’s place in less than twenty minutes. Instead of being pleased as they pull into the driveway, all Shiro feels is the heavy weight of disappointment. 

“What’s going on?” Keith asks once he’s pulled off his helmet, eyebrows furrowed as they roam over the front lawn, which for some reason is covered in a dozen garden gnomes wearing condoms on the tips of their weird little gnome hats.

“It looks like they’re having a party,” Shiro answers, trying for a smile that feels awkward even to him. He can only imagine what it looks like to Keith.

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry, Keith. I didn’t know. We can get the ice cream sandwiches and something for your arm and just hide in the hammock.”

“It’s fine, Shiro. I mean I’ve never actually been to a frat party. It could be fun,” Keith says at the exact moment Lance makes his way out of the front door, zig-zagging through the condom headed gnomes like they’re sports cones. Strangely enough, it’s not the weirdest thing about what Lance is doing.

“Why the fuck is he naked?” Keith asks.

“I...don’t know,” Shiro answers, watching with equal amounts of confusion and morbid fascination as Lance does some sort of weird chicken dance around the gnomes—his dick swinging like a tether ball. 

Normally Shiro loves his frat brothers. They’re noisy and wild and kind of ridiculous, but they know how to have fun and they’re good at pulling Shiro out of his head. They don’t ever judge Shiro for not always joining in on the parties or call him a stick in the mud for not usually drinking. They accept Shiro and he accepts them. They’re his friends—his _family_. But right now Shiro doesn’t want to see Lance’s pale ass and his balls flying in the wind, or listen to whatever random ass music they’ve got blaring from the speaker Matt built out of salvaged satellite parts and some AV equipment he _borrowed_ before he left high school and never gave back.

All Shiro wants is to make Keith happy—to make sure that this new friendship—and maybe more—starts off on the right foot. He wants everything to be perfect. 

“Fail!” Kinkade yells from the front doorstep, and yeah he’s naked too. Or mostly. For some reason he’s wearing a pirate hat and he’s got a football under his left arm as he zigzags his way through the gnomes.

Everything is not perfect.

“Hut,” Kinkade yells seconds before he sends the football spiraling towards Keith.

On instinct Shiro shoots out his prosthetic hand, metal fingers wrapping around the ball seconds before it collides with Keith’s face. Kinkade and Lance cheer loudly as Keith lets out a low whistle.

“Damn, Shirogane, those are some nice reflexes,” Keith praises.

Shiro flushes from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes. Shiro’s known for a while he likes a bit of praise thrown his way, but he’s never been affected the way he is when it’s praise _from Keith_.

“It was nothing,” he mumbles, blowing the hair from his eyes.

“Nothing about you is nothing,” Keith says, with a surprising amount of sincerity. 

The words are right there, sitting on the end of Shiro’s tongue— _Keith, you’re so special. I’m so glad you’re in my life again. I missed you. I like you so much._ Every thought from the day threatens to come tumbling out in a rush right then and there, naked frat brothers watching or not. His lips are forming the words too when he catches sight of the bee sting on Keith’s arm again and the need to take care of Keith overtakes everything else.

“We should ice your arm.”

Keith looks down at the sting and laughs. “Oh yeah, I forgot it was there.”

“Still, we should get some ice on it just in case. So it doesn’t swell.”

“Okay,” Keith says, lips thinning as he fights off a smile.

“What?” Shiro asks, sensing there’s something else Keith wants to say.

“Nothing,” Keith answers, falling into step beside Shiro as they weave between the gnomes towards the front door. Lance and Kinkade have disappeared once more but if the noises coming from inside are any indication, there’s something equally wacky going on inside. “It’s just...you used to do this when we were kids too. Always trying to get me to rest when I looked tired, sweet talking the nurses for an extra pudding cup and saving it for me, holding back my hair when I threw up after chemo. Just, you know...taking care of me.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, Shiro. It’s okay.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath that makes his chest expand. “Shiro, I—”

“Hey, you brought Keith back!” Hunk yells, sliding up beside them and clapping Shiro on the back. Hunk at least is dressed. As much as Shiro loves dick, there’s only one person’s dick he’s interested in and it's definitely none of his frat brothers.

“Yeah, here I am,” Keith laughs, shoving his hands into his pocket. He looks nervous, and the little tendril of guilt floods Shiro again. He wanted today to be perfect, not for Keith to feel uncomfortable.

“You look like you need a drink, buddy,” Hunk tells Keith. “Follow me to the kitchen and I’ll hook you up.”

Keith follows Hunk and Shiro follows Keith, sticking close as they weave through the crowded living room. Shiro recognizes most of the faces from the other fraternities or sororities on campus, though as usual there are always a few faces he doesn’t recognize. He makes sure to stick close to Keith, his chest practically plastered to Keith’s back and a hand on his hip as they head into the kitchen which is just as crowded.

“Do you want a beer or some of my special punch?” Hunk asks, leaning back against the kitchen counter with a grin. “Not to brag but my punch is basically legendary in the Greek world.”

“He does mean to brag,” Shiro laughs, giving Keith’s hip a squeeze. “And you don’t need to drink anything if you’re not comfortable. Or if you’ve never had anything to drink. Have you ever had liquor?”

Keith snorts. “I’m twenty Shiro, not two. Yes, I’ve had liquor. Mom gave me my first beer when I was eighteen. She said if I was old enough to enlist in the military then I was old enough to learn how to safely handle my liquor.”

“That sounds like Krolia,” Shiro agrees. Though his memories of Keith’s mom aren’t as vivid as the ones of Keith, from what he does remember she was always a woman of no nonsense and tough as nails. It’s not hard to see where Keith gets his strong will from. 

“Sooooo,” Hunk asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ll try the punch,” Keith says.

Hunk grins. “I knew I liked you. A brave, brave man.”

“I’ll have the punch too,” Shiro adds. He doesn’t drink often, not because he objects to alcohol, but because he never has been able to hold his liquor. But this is a special occasion, and if Keith’s going to drink some of Hunk’s special punch then Shiro will too. 

“Uh, are you sure, buddy. You remember what happened last time you had the punch?” Hunk asks, already filling a red Solo cup.

“Of course I remember,” Shiro mumbles, cheeks heating. It’s sort of hard to forget being the only male to enter a wet t-shirt contest.

“What happened last time you drank the punch?” Keith asks, taking his cup from Hunk with a murmured thanks but his eyes never leaving Shiro’s.

“It’s not a big deal,” Shiro tries.

“Shiro’s just too modest to tell you he’s got the best tits on campus.”

Shiro groans, covering his face with his hands. “I hate you Hunk.”

“He doesn’t hate me. Shiro doesn’t hate anyone, he's too nice. Except maybe Slav.”

“Slav is a menace and shouldn’t have tenure,” Shiro grumbles as he drops his hands from his face, the need to voice this particular opinion outweighing his embarrassment.

“He’s right,” Hunk laughs, finally passing Shiro his own red cup full of mystery punch. It doesn’t escape Shiro’s notice that his cup isn’t quite as full as Keith’s.

“So, what do you think guys?” Hunk asks, crossing his arms. “I made it extra strong today.”

It’s hard for Shiro to imagine the punch being stronger than it was the last time he had any, but sure enough as he takes his first sip, it is. The punch is sickeningly sweet and has a faint pineapple coconut taste. Shiro doesn’t particularly like coconut, but out of the corner of his eye he can see that Keith’s not taking a tentative sip like Shiro, he’s taking a huge chug. Never willing to be outdone, Shiro does the same—gulping down the bright red liquid at an unwise speed.

He keeps his eyes on Keith the entire time, his body thrumming with adrenaline the moment he catches Keith’s eye. Neither of them need to say a word, they both just _know_. Keith keeps his eyes locked on Shiro as he tilts his head back and really starts to chug.

Shiro smiles against the rim of his cup as he copies him, the liquor burning on the way down his throat. He’s probably going to regret this later, but right now he can’t back down.

“Oh wow, Shiro found another person as stupidly competitive as he is,” Hunk observes. 

Shiro would laugh but he’s too busy trying to win. The adrenaline pumps through Shiro’s veins as he tries to drink faster, barely tasting it on the way down . Shiro’s eyes track over the line of Keith’s throat,the bob of his Adam's apple as he drinks,and the little bit of sweat still pooled in the hollow of his collarbone where his shirt has slipped sideways.

A little bit of the red punch slips past Keith’s lips, dripping down his jaw in a way that makes all the blood go right to Shiro’s dick and has him nearly cracking his stupid red plastic cup.

“Right, so there’s a lot of unresolved sexual tension happening right now so I’m going to leave. Have fun, boys.”

Shiro has just enough brain cells left to give Hunk a polite half wave with his free hand as he leaves, but his gaze never leaves Keith. 

Somehow Keith manages to finish his punch first, despite his cup being fuller than Shiro’s. The little swell of disappointment Shiro feels at losing is dwarfed by the way Keith’s shit-eating grin makes him feel. Shiro’s never been a very good loser, but he doesn’t mind so much when it’s Keith.

“I won,” Keith declares, looking immensely pleased with himself as he licks the punch from his lips.

“Who said it was a competition?” Shiro tries.

“Uh, you. Your eyes. Don’t even pretend it wasn’t,” Keith says, jabbing a finger in Shiro’s chest. There’s a fire that simmers beneath the surface as he speaks, Keith’s competitive edge taking over. It reminds Shiro of the hours he and Keith used to spend knee to knee playing his GameBoy—egging each other on about who was the better player and making ridiculous bets about what the loser had to do to try and distract themselves. The only person Shiro’s ever met who is worse at losing than him is Keith. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shiro lies, heart rattling in his chest at the look of indignance that passes on Keith’s face. Shiro’s not sure what’s gotten into him or why he’s riling Keith up, but he can’t stop. 

“You’re full of shit, Shiro,” Keith laughs, crossing his arms. “I drank you under the table and I could do it again. I’ll beat you at anything.”

“Anything?” Shiro asks, head already feeling a little woozy from the liquor.

“Anything,” Keith echoes, the fire in his eyes sending all the blood in Shiro’s body right to his dick. Keith’s confidence is sexy as fuck, and Shiro’s rapidly losing his control.

“I challenge you to a game of Battleshots,” Shiro says.

“What the hell is battle—”

“There’s been a challenge,” Lance crows, making Shiro jump. Before he can ask Lance where hell he came from or how long he’d been standing there, Lance is cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling, “Set up the battlegrounds. Shiro has challenged Keith.”

There’s a smattering of catcalls and hollers as more people flood into the kitchen, the knowledge of what Shiro has done settling in as the cup of mystery punch hits him in full force.

“What the fuck is going on?” Keith hisses, stepping closer to Shiro’s side.

“Shiro has challenged you to Battleshots. It’s a game of honor in our fraternity,” Hunk declares, and Shiro has no idea when he came back.

“Move aside! Everyone move their fucking asses. Let me through,” Matt screeches, elbowing his way through the crowd with the Battleship board. “Move the fucking punch.”

Hunk moves first, grabbing the punch bowl and carrying it to the corner of the kitchen counter. The rest of his frat brothers follow suit, clearing the stacks of red Solo cups and liquor bottles from the kitchen table. 

“Someone get me the tequila,” Matt yells, arranging the shot glasses in the little wooden boats.

“Wow, he’s intense,” Keith whispers.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “You should see him during finals.”

Keith snorts. “I can imagine it.”

Around them his frat brothers move quickly, collecting chairs and setting up the game. It occurs to Shiro that this has spiraled way out of his control.

“Just so you know, you don’t have to do this. Just say the word and I’ll make them stop and we can leave,” Shiro tells Keith.

Keith’s tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth as he drags his gaze from the Battleshot setup back to Shiro, something playful glinting in his eyes. “Takashi Shirogane, are you scared of losing?”

The laugh bubbles out of Shiro’s chest before he can stop it. “Not a fucking chance, Kogane.”

“Then don’t take it easy on me,” Keith tells him. “Give me all you got.”

Shiro inhales sharply. He knows Keith is talking about the game, but his dick doesn’t seem to know that. Shiro needs another drink—and _now_ —if he wants any chance of surviving this game without making a fool of himself. But he also doesn’t want a drink because that will mean Keith is one shot closer to beating him.

“Ready to lose, big boy?” Keith asks, giving Shiro’s bicep a playful squeeze. Keith’s fingers are strong, his grip firm but gentle. The hoards of noisy partygoers and his frat brothers fade into the background as Shiro’s entire focus narrows down to the curve of Keith’s pretty lips as they turn up in a smile clearly meant for Shiro. 

“Yes,” Shiro answers, immediately realizing what he’s said and shakes his head. “I mean no. I mean, I’m ready but I’m not going to lose.”

Shiro’s definitely a little bit fucked. The punch is making him feel flushed, or maybe it’s Keith’s fingers wrapped around his arm, or maybe it’s just Keith existing. Keith’s so pretty.

“Men, to your stations,” Matt orders, physically dragging Shiro away from Keith.

“You’re bossy,” Shiro says, stumbling after him.

“And you’re already tipsy,” Matt snorts. “Hunk told me about the punch by the way. Listen, if you don’t want alcohol poisoning you better not lose. You need to focus on the game, my man. Think with this head,” Matt tells him, rapping his knuckles against Shiro’s forehead. 

“I’m not tipsy,” Shiro disagrees, fanning himself with his hand. “Is it hot in here?”

“Oh my god,” Matt groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just make sure you sink his ships, dude. Remember, _sink his ships_. Don’t think about what’s in his pants or whatever else you’re thinking about right now that makes you look like Cupid shot you in the face. You need to focus on the game.”

“I don’t look like Cupid shot me in the face,” Shiro disagrees, somehow feeling even hotter. He wonders if it would be inappropriate to take off his tank top. 

“God, you do though, dude. I should take a picture of you when you look at him. It’s like watching a puppy get its first bone. The only thing that makes it less pathetic is the fact that he looks at you the same way.

“Am I the puppy or the bone?” Shiro asks, only half paying attention to Matt. It’s hard to focus on anything but Keith and the little furrow of concentration on his face as Hunk whispers something to him while Lance fills up the shot glasses.

“Just remember, you’re smart and capable and you can sink his ships. You can beat Keith.”

Keith. Keith who is pulling his hair back. Shiro has no idea who gave him a hair tie, but the sight of the spunky little half ponytail—long bits still falling around his face and the line of his sharp jawline more visible—makes Shiro’s heart thud in his chest. 

“Keith’s really pretty, Matt.”

Matt groans loudly.

“What?” Shiro asks. “He is, right? Have you ever seen anyone with hair as nice as him? And lips. He has lips, Matt.”

There’s another groan from Matt, even louder than the last. “You’re even more gone than I thought. I’m gonna need to have some words with Hunk for letting you have that much punch.”

“The punch was good,” Shiro says. “Can I have more?”

He’s pretty sure there was a good reason he didn’t want more punch earlier, but it’s sort of hard to remember now, especially with the buzz of his first drink really hitting him and the sight of Keith across the table winking at him. 

“No, you cannot have more punch, dude,” Matt huffs, placing his hands on Shiro’s biceps and guiding him back towards his side of the table. “Just focus okay. Think about the honor of your fraternity and your honor as a man. You can’t let Keith get one over on you.”

“I wouldn’t mind Keith over me,” Shiro says, dropping his voice low enough so that only Matt can hear him.

Matt makes a pained noise. “Focus, Shiro. Focus.”

“I am focusing,” Shiro says, watching the way the muscles in Keith’s arms flex as he stretches them overhead. There are too many people crowded into their tiny kitchen, the rumble of different voices making it hard for Shiro to even think and the extra bodies making Shiro itch to strip off his clothes. He’s suddenly unsure why he suggested the drinking game when he could’ve just snuck away with Keith and had Keith all to himself.

His thoughts are broken by Regris grabbing a spoon and pot from the dish drainer and loudly banging on it like some sort of war drum until everyone’s attention is on him.

“Good, you’re all paying attention. Now everyone shut the fuck up,” Regris shouts as he drops the pot back onto the sink, “the game is going to begin. Gentleman, man your battleships.”

“You can go first. You'll need the head start if you wanna beat me, hotshot,” Keith boasts, definitely loud enough for everyone to hear. 

A rushing sound fills Shiro’s ears as the crowd hoots and hollers, but all of Shiro’s attention is on Keith. 

Shiro is torn between complete and utter arousal at the cocky look on Keith’s face, and a burning desire to beat him. There’s a little smirk on Keith’s face as he crosses his arms and he doesn’t look the least bit affected by the punch yet, something Shiro finds completely unfair since his entire body feels flushed and his ability to focus is definitely at a six out of ten.

“I’ll beat you all right,” Shiro says, sober enough to know some kind of retort is expected, though he’s not actually sure if his words are true. Shiro is excellent at Battleship, normally. Normally, though, he hasn’t chugged twenty ounces of Hunk’s mystery punch first. It’s also possible that Shiro’s inability to focus is due to the sight of Keith on the other side of the table, tongue protruding from between his pursed lips as he arranges his ships.

“Jesus Christ, Shiro,” Matt groans, elbowing him harder than is necessary. “Move your ships, dude.”

“Right, ships,” Shiro mutters. 

Matt grumbles something under his breath as he scoots back into the periphery, leaving Shiro to squint down at his side of the board. 

He does his best not to glance over at Keith as he moves his hands, carefully positioning his little ships full of tequila shots in a way that he hopes won’t be easy for Keith to discover. As he settles on his placement, his confidence grows. Shiro has totally got this.

“Your move,” Keith announces, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Shiro a look that, were Shiro a weaker man, might have him quivering in his sneakers. Keith’s game face is both brutal and sexy as fuck.

Shiro is aware that Keith was teasing him before, and more than that, he knows he probably does need the extra head start since his brain is already starting to feel a little fuzzy from the alcohol. Unfortunately the stupid, overly competitive part of Shiro’s brain takes over before he can stop himself.

“No, you go first,” Shiro blurts. “You definitely need it more.”

Keith smirks, a playful grin spreading across his face. “If you insist, Shiro.”

Without hesitation, Keith begins to call out his five shots to mark his target grid, clearly more experienced at this game than Shiro anticipated, and Shiro wants to bang his face into the table for playing right into Keith’s hand. _Played_. Keith played him. 

Shiro’s a goddamn competitive fool and he just might lose.

Despite the worry, Shiro doesn’t give up because he’s never been a quitter. Half an hour later he’s not so sure. He’d started off well enough, getting a shot on his second try and his third. There’s a crow of victory when Keith admits Shiro has sunk his cruiser, and Shiro had allowed himself a moment too long to revel in the victory. He also let the sight of Keith’s pretty smile and that post sunken ship to lull him into a false sense of security. 

What follows is something that can only be described as a massacre.

Now, if Shiro doesn’t know better he’d swear Keith is secretly moving his stupid fleet around every time Shiro blinks because try as he might he can’t land another shot. Keith sure as fuck can though, somehow managing to sink Shiro’s destroyer in three successive turns. With every shot Shiro can feel his chances of winning slipping away along with any semblance of self-control and composure.

By the time Keith lands his fourth shot—the tail end of his aircraft carrier this time—the alcohol has Shiro so flushed he yanks his tank top off without a second thought and throws it to the floor. Keith’s eyes widen but he remains unmoving. If he’s affected by Shiro’s sudden loss of clothing he does a good job of hiding it.

After that it’s all downhill for Shiro, who finds the combination of tequila and the punch too much for his massive-but-lightweight ass. He tries to stay focused, really he does, but Keith is just so goddamn pretty, and dark strands of his messy hair are falling into his eyes, and all Shiro wants to do is fuck away from the Battleshots game and drag Keith into his bed and cuddle. Or fuck. Or maybe cuddlefuck. He’s not even sure what he wants, just knows it involves _Keith_.

Shiro doesn’t even realize he’s said any of this out loud until Lance drops his cup of punch and the room goes silent. Shiro nearly chokes on his own saliva, reaching up to tug at his collar before realizing he’s not wearing a shirt. Right, he’d taken it off.

“Shiro?” Keith whispers, standing on the other side of the table looking surprised.

Shiro isn’t sure how Keith can be surprised. Shiro can’t take his eyes off Keith. Keith’s so perfect and—and Shiro is talking out loud again.

“Uh, aren’t you two going to finish the game?” Someone yells. Shiro’s not sure who, his brain is too full of thoughts of Keith. Tomorrow when he’s not halfway drunk he’s going to look back on this and die of embarrassment. Right now all he can do is stare at Keith and pray he hasn’t just ruined things.

“Game’s over,” Keith announces, eyes glued to Shiro.

“No it’s not, there’s liquor left,” Lance challenges.

Keith drags his gaze away from Shiro to Lance and proceeds to down every shot glass on his side of the board. Shiro’s definitely too far gone to count how many shots that actually is but it’s a lot. He knows it’s a lot. 

It’s a lot, and Keith is so sexy and confident, and Shiro really wants Keith in his bed.

“Oh my god, dude, you’re talking out loud again,” Matt groans, slapping a hand to his forehead.

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, trying to move closer to Keith but bumping into the table in the process. He winces, rubbing his hip. Fuck, he’s definitely a little drunk. 

“Come on, Shiro,” Keith says, a hand on his lower back. 

“Where are we going?” Shiro asks, desperately trying to figure out when Keith came around from his side of the table.

“Your room.”

Shiro sways, turning his face down to Keith’s. “ _Really?_ ”

“Oh my god, you’re drunk and so fucking cute.”

“You think I’m cute?” Shiro asks, latching on to the last part.

Keith huffs, blowing the hair out of his eyes. “You’ve got to know I do, Shiro. You’re...fuck, you’re perfect.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes. “Thank you, Keith.”

“If someone doesn’t get them into a room alone I might throw up,” a voice yells. Shiro’s pretty sure it's Lance, but he doesn’t care enough to look to find out.

“Where’s your room, Shiro?” Keith asks, giving his hip a gentle squeeze to get his attention.

“Somewhere upstairs,” he answers, too distracted by the feeling of Keith’s warm fingers at his side to answer an open-ended question. “Keith, you’re so pretty. I missed you so much.”

“Oh my god, please take him to his room.” That’s definitely Matt talking. Matt, who is shoving two bottles of Gatorade at Keith. “His room is upstairs. Second door on the left. You can’t miss it, he’s the only one in this house who makes his bed.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, smiling at Matt.

Shiro can feel the pout forming on his face. He wants Keith to smile at him like that.

“Holy fuck, no one ever let him have Hunk’s punch ever again,” Matt yells.

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Shiro asks Keith, his cheeks heating.

“Yeah, you did,” Keith laughs, but he’s smiling at Shiro now instead of Matt so everything is right in the world. “Come on, stairs ahead, big boy.”

The words go straight to Shiro’s dick as he stumbles, only avoiding face planting into the stairs because of Keith’s firm grip on his hip.

“Easy, Shiro.”

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, his ears burning.

“You’re fine,” Keith tells him, guiding him up. “One foot at a time.”

Shiro’s pretty sure it’s Keith’s proximity and not the liquor that’s turning him into a klutz but he doesn’t want to say that out loud. He’s said too much already.

“You drank more than me, why aren’t you drunk?” Shiro asks.

Keith grins, hip checking Shiro as they stop out onto the second floor landing. “It’s a secret.”

“I love secrets,” Shiro says, following along easily. He’d go anywhere Keith wanted to take him, drunk or not.

“I’m an alien.”

Shiro stops dead, eyes wide. He doesn’t realize Keith’s joking until Keith busts out laughing.

“Shiro, I’m joking. I can just really hold my liquor. My mom says it comes from her side of the family because Dad is kind of a lightweight.”

“Oh, me too,” Shiro says.

Keith laughs again. “Yeah, you are. It’s cute.”

It’s the second time Keith’s called him cute tonight and it makes Shiro’s ears feel like they’re on fire. It doesn’t make sense since Shiro is no stranger to compliments on his appearance, but this is different. It’s _Keith_.

“Wow, your room is really neat,” Keith observes, pushing Shiro’s bedroom door open.

“It’s a mess,” Shiro counters, frowning at the leftover pile of clothes on the end of his bed he didn’t get a chance to put away before Keith arrived earlier. 

“Oh my god, we have very different definitions of messy,” Keith snorts, pulling his arm off Shiro’s hip to wave his hands around Shiro’s room. “This is not messy.”

Shiro shrugs, stumbling over to the bed and grabbing the pile of clothes and shoving them in the top drawer of his dresser. Tomorrow he’s going to be sorry for making them all so wrinkled, but that's a problem for sober Shiro. Right now all tipsy Shiro wants is an empty bed to get Keith into.

When he turns back around Keith is putting the Gatorade on the side table.

“There...in case you need it later when you wake up. Although, you should probably drink some of it before you go to bed too. Will you drink some before I go?”

A funny feeling blossoms in Shiro’s chest and makes his throat tight.

“You’re leaving?”

Keith’s got his hands in his pockets, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he eyes Shiro as if studying him. “You’re drunk.”

“M’not that drunk,” Shiro challenges, though he’s not entirely sure if its the truth or not. He certainly wants it to be the truth. He was not supposed to be drunk today. He was supposed to make things special for Keith.

“You kind of are,” Keith says. There’s no judgement in his tone, but Keith’s probably not wrong. Shiro is definitely a little bit drunk which means he can’t focus enough to read between the lines of what Keith isn’t saying.

“If you want to leave I understand,” Shiro whispers, trying not to pout. If the look on Keith’s face is any indication he fails.

“I don’t want to leave, idiot,” Keith mumbles, closing the distance between them and tipping his face up to Shiro’s. “But you’re _drunk_.”

“You keep saying that,” Shiro breathes, blinking down at Keith and wondering if he got even prettier since they came upstairs.

Keith lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, Shiro.”

“Take advantage of me. Please.”

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Shiro.”

“You can. You can do anything you want with me. I won’t say no.”

Keith groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “No.”

The lump in Shiro’s throat drops into his stomach, heavy as a wrecking ball. Oh. Keith doesn’t want him, not like that. Shiro’s stupid. He’s so stupid and he’s ruined everything.

“Shiro, you didn’t ruin anything,” Keith whispers, reaching up to touch the side of his face. His fingers are so warm and he’s touching Shiro with a gentleness Shiro isn’t used to. Shiro knows he’s a big guy and other people know it too. He’s used to hearty claps on the shoulder or playful shoves from his frat brothers. Even the few times he’s tried dating someone in the past they never touched him like _this_ —like he was something worth being gentle with.

Shiro’s too upset to be embarrassed that he thought out loud again. “No, I did. I was supposed to give you the perfect day and I didn’t. You didn’t get any ice cream and you got stung by a bee, and then my frat brothers bombarded you, and now I made you uncomfortable and I’m going to lose you.”

There’s a quiver in Shiro’s jaw but he can’t seem to stop it. This is another reason Shiro never drinks. It always goes one of two ways, and he either loses his entire brain-to-mouth filter, or he gets emotional and cries. His therapist thinks Shiro has control issues, and Shiro’s starting to think she’s right because he can definitely feel moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes which only makes things worse. He doesn’t want to cry and he doesn’t want to be drunk anymore and he doesn’t want to lose Keith.

“Shiro.”

“Stupid punch,” Shiro grumbles, scrubbing his palms over his eyes. 

“Hey, look at me,” Keith says, fingers on Shiro’s jaw. “You’re fine. More than fine. I meant what I said earlier. You’re perfect. But you’re tipsy and you don’t know what you want. This is too important. _You’re_ too important and I won’t fuck that up.”

“I want you,” Shiro says, unable to filter a single thought. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you sitting in the coffee shop with your messy hair and band shirt. I wanted you when I was fifteen and I saw you sitting in the chair by my bed in a hospital gone with your bony knees and bedhead.”

“Jesus Christ, Shiro,” Keith breathes, and this time it's Keith whose jaw quivers.

“I never stopped looking for you, Keith. Never.” Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. He reaches out to cup Keith’s face, unable to believe the way it fits in the palm of his hands. “I tried so hard to pretend I could take things slow because I didn’t wanna overwhelm you but I can’t slow down.”

“ _Shiro_.” 

“I know what I feel,” Shiro insists, dropping his metal hand from Keith’s cheek to reach down and take Keith’s hand, pulling it up to his chest and laying it over his heart. He pushes harder, his finger digging into the back of Keith’s hand wanting Keith to feel what he feels—wanting him to feel the way Shiro’s heart rattles in his chest. “Feel. Feel what you do to me.”

“It’s so fast,” Keith whispers, splaying his palm wide over Shiro’s chest.

“Yeah, that’s you. And well...the liquor. It feels funny, keeps skipping a beat,” Shiro laughs, adding pressure to the top of Keith’s hand. He’s unsure if this building sense of euphoria is from his confession or all the alcohol. “But mostly it’s you. It won’t stop fluttering.”

“Fuck. I was supposed to do this right. I was gonna take things slow. I’m not good at slow, but I was gonna romance you. I had a plan and...and...fuck I wanna kiss you.”

“Kiss me,” Shiro says, heart thudding loudly in his chest at the knowledge that Keith wants him too, maybe even as much as Shiro wants Keith.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, Shiro,” Keith whispers, rising up on tiptoes so his nose is smushed up against Shiro’s—a fire blazing in his eyes as his breath ghosts over Shiro’s lips.

“Then show me,” Shiro goads, dragging his hands down Keith’s back to pull him closer.

A low-pitched sound not unlike a growl rumbles out of Keith before he surges forward, kissing Shiro with such force they go tumbling backward onto Shiro’s bed. It’s not enough to break the kiss. Shiro’s pretty sure the entire house could be on fire and it wouldn’t be enough to make him stop kissing Keith.

Keith’s lips are a little chapped, but they’re so goddamn warm, and he’s kissing Shiro like he needs him to breathe, knees on either side of Shiro’s hips as he pins Shiro to the bed and slips his tongue into Shiro’s mouth. It’s a good thing Shiro’s already on his back because Keith’s tongue in his mouth feels so good it makes Shiro’s head spin, and there’s no way he would’ve been able to stay upright otherwise. 

He’d suspected Keith might be a good kisser—his intensity and fire bleeding into everything he does—but he’s still unprepared for just how true it is. Keith’s not just a good kisser, he’s a _great_ kisser. He nips at Shiro’s bottom lip in between kisses, dragging his tongue over Shiro’s bottom lip before slipping it into Shiro’s mouth and dragging sounds from Shiro that he’s positive he’s never made in front of another living soul. Keith’s single-minded focus is overwhelming in the best way possible, and Shiro digs his fingers into Keith’s hips in a futile attempt to stop himself from simply floating away.

“Keith,” Shiro groans, his name the only coherent thought Shiro can form.

“You have no idea,” Keith groans, slipping his fingers into Shiro’s and pressing Shiro’s hands above his head as he pulls out of the kiss. His eyes are blown wide, his lips glistening with spit, and his hair sticking up on the right side where some of it has come loose from the ponytail.

“No idea what?” Shiro asks, unable to stop staring at Keith’s pretty mouth.

“What you do me,” Keith says, squeezing Shiro’s sides with his knees as he bends over him. 

“No,” Shiro agrees. “I don’t know.”

Another soft little growl falls from Keith’s lip, and instead of speaking he crashes their lips together, kissing Shiro with such intensity that when he does pull out of the kiss Shiro’s eyes are unfocused and his chest is heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

“You make me crazy,” Keith says, squeezing Shiro’s fingers. “You just...you’re so _you_.”

“Is that a good thing?” Shiro asks, chasing the taste of Keith on his lips as he drags his tongue over them.

“Fuck. You just...yes. Yes, Shiro. It’s a good thing. You were the best friend I ever had, and there wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t miss you. I’d all but given up hope of finding you again, and there you were standing in that coffee shop looking like something out of a wet dream. And if it wasn’t bad enough that you went from the cutest boy on earth to the hottest man alive, you had to still be as dorky and thoughtful and sweet. You’re still the same Shiro I loved when I was fourteen.”

“You loved me?” Shiro gasps.

“You must have known,” Keith huffs, giving Shiro’s hands another squeeze. 

Shiro shakes his head. “You never said.”

“I was fourteen, what the fuck did i know about feelings,” Keith mumbles, blowing out a breath. “I loved you though. Maybe not the same way I think I do now but—”

Keith snaps his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed. He even removes his hands from Shiro’s and covers his face.

“You _love_ me,” Shiro whispers.

Keith grubs, hands remaining plastered over his face.

“Keith.”

No response. 

Shiro slowly reaches up, tapping at Keith’s fingers. He doesn’t move them but he doesn’t try to stop Shiro either, allowing Shiro to slowly pry the fingers off his face.

“You love me,” he repeats, definitely sober enough to understand what’s happening.

“I mean, maybe?” Keith says, his words somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Maybe?”

“I do. It’s not maybe,” Keith whispers, opening his eyes. “But it’s too soon right? It’s crazy.”

“If you’re crazy, then so am I,” Shiro says, suddenly certain of what the feeling in his chest all day has meant. 

Keith’s eyes widen. “You...you—”

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers, unable to hold back his smile. “I think I’ve loved you since the moment I met you.”

“Oh my god, how are you like this?” Keith groans. Before Shiro can ask if that’s good or bad, Keith speaks again. “Don’t you dare ever change, Shiro.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Shiro grins, grabbing Keith’s shirt to tug him closer.

“Oh, well good then,” Keith says, a matching smile on his face as Shiro swaps their positions so he’s the one on top. Before he can fulfil the fantasy taking shape in his head, he’s interrupted by his traitorous body as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. 

“Whoa,” Shiro mumbles, head spinning as he tips sideways, nearly falling off the bed. It’s only Keith’s firm grip around his wrist that stops him. “Thanks.”

“Maybe you should lay down,” Keith says, rubbing Shiro’s forearm.

“I’m fine,” Shiro protests, even though the ground suddenly feels like it's moving.

“No passing out on first dates, okay?” Keith says, scooting out from beneath Shiro. The bottom falls out of Shiro’s stomach at the feeling of Keith moving away but it’s only for a few seconds so Keith can stretch out across the bed and grab the Gatorade which he holds out towards Shiro. “Drink. Then lay down.”

“Don’t wanna,” Shiro pouts, taking the Gatorade with a frown. “I wanted to kiss you more.”

“We can kiss laying down,” Keith says. “Drink that first though, please.”

“For you,” Shiro says, twisting the cap off. “I really hate orange Gatorade though. Just for the record.”

“The red one is clearly the superior flavor,” Keith says.

“I like cucumber melon,” Shiro says, grimacing before chugging half the bottle. It reminds Shiro of the gross glucose beverage he used to have to drink in the hospital, and it's only the knowledge that Keith wants him to drink it that helps him keep it down.

“Good boy,” Keith whispers, taking the bottle from Shiro and chugging the rest. “There now we both suffered.”

“My hero,” Shiro laughs, head spinning once more. He wobbles on his knees but thankfully Keith’s there, guiding Shiro down onto the bed so both their heads are pillowed side by side.

“Hi there,” Keith whispers, tapping his fingers against Shiro’s tummy.

“Hi,” Shiro echoes, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“You tired?” Keith asks.

“No,” Shiro lies, yawning again. He doesn’t want to be tired. He doesn't want to fall asleep. He wants to lay here and stare at Keith forever.

“I’m not leaving,” Keith assures him, the tapping transitioning into something that feels a hell of a lot more like petting. Shiro’s never had anyone do this but it feels so nice he almost whimpers as Keith’s thumb smooths over the softest bit of his tummy below his belly button.

“Didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Shiro mumbles, eyes getting heavy lidded as Keith continues to run his fingers through Shiro’s hair with his other hand, paying special attention to the longer bits in the front. Between the fingers in his hair and the ones on his tummy Shiro is in heaven and try as he might Shiro can’t fight the exhaustion as it settles in, his body sinking into the bed.

“Shh, just sleep, Shiro. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Shiro asks as his eyes take the next step towards sleep and fall shut without his permission. The alcohol has his limbs going heavy, and Keith’s fingers in his hair are lulling him to sleep.

“Promise.”

Anything else Shiro wants to say dies on his lips as he drifts to sleep, content and warm with Keith in his arms.

When Shiro next wakes up, he’s anything but content. The bed is warm enough, but it’s _empty_ and it takes Shiro’s sleep-addled and slightly hungover brain a few seconds to make the connection between the empty space in his bed and the lack of Keith.

“Keith?” Shiro mumbles, sitting up so fast it makes his head spin. 

He’s definitely got a bit of a headache, but that's not a surprise considering how much he drank. He’s not sure what time it is. It’s late if the little strip of moonlight filtering in through the curtain is any indication, but he can’t see the clock on the bedside table from here and he doesn’t care enough to get up and look. The time doesn’t matter, what matters is Keith is gone.

Try as he might, Shiro can’t fight off the dread settling in his chest. Keith’s confession about feeling the same about Shiro feels like it happened years ago, and the certainty Shiro felt about his love being returned is nowhere to be found. Instead there’s just an ache at the knowledge that Keith is gone.

Maybe Shiro did ruin things after all. Maybe—

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, slipping into Shiro’s bedroom and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Shiro’s embarrassed at the rush of emotions that crash over him. He’s definitely too sleepy and vulnerable to deal with this many emotions.

“Nothing,” Shiro croaks, watching as Keith pushes off his jeans and kicks off his shoes before shuffling back to Shiro.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Keith asks as he climbs back into the bed. 

“Nothing,” Shiro answers again.

“Then why does your face look all pinched up like you smelled a skunk?” Keith asks, laying down on his side and propping himself up on his left elbow to stare at Shiro.

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to say that he doesn’t look like he smelled a skunk, but he’s self-aware enough to know his face is definitely doing some unattractive and pathetic frowny pout thing right now, and if anyone in the world would call him on his bullshit if he lied it would be Keith. Then there’s the fact that Shiro doesn’t have any desire to lie to Keith, not even about the embarrassing or deeply vulnerable things. Still, it doesn’t make his next words any easier to get out.

“I thought you left.”

“You—oh, Shiro.”

“I know, it’s pathetic. Just...you know I woke up and the bed was empty and yeah.” 

“I had to piss,” Keith laughs, no malice in the sound. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, feeling even more ridiculous.

“God, you’re cute,” Keith whispers, lifting his right hand to brush the hair off Shiro’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you? You drank a lot more than me.”

“Alien remember,” Keith winks. “Also, I chugged that entire other Gatorade after you fell asleep. I’m good. But what about you?”

Shiro exhales, focusing on the way Keith’s fingers feel in his hair. “Kinda shitty but also amazing.”

“Yeah?” Keith wonders, as if that’s surprising.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, acutely aware of the erratic thump thump of his heart with Keith this close. The pull to lean forward and kiss him is strong, only dwarfed by his body's other need. “Also, I need to piss.”

“Hurry up then, go piss and get your ass back here and cuddle me,” Keith huffs out with a laugh, dropping his head onto the pillow. His dark hair fans out over the white pillowcase, making him look ethereal in the shadow of the moonlight. Shiro doesn’t want to leave him, but his body has other ideas.

With no small amount of regret at having to roll away from Keith, Shiro does it. Unlike Keith he doesn't bother putting on his shoes or a shirt, stumbling out of the room and down the hallway in nothing but his sweats. Once he’s taken a piss and washed his hands he pauses in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. His hair looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket, and there’s dried drool on the corner of his mouth. He can only imagine what the hell his breath smells like since his mouth tastes like he chewed on a dirty gym sock. Keith deserves better than a gym sock kiss.

He yanks open the medicine cabinet, grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste from the only toothbrush cup that’s labelled because his frat brothers are disgusting and not allowed near his oral hygiene items. He adds on more toothpaste than usual, swiping it over his teeth. It’s less time than he’d normally do, but he’s too excited to get back to Keith, so he rinses his mouth and stores his toothbrush safely back in the cabinet before returning to his bedroom. 

When he opens the door it's to find Keith sprawled out on the bed on his stomach like a starfish, head turned to the side and his mouth hanging open as he exhales little puffs of air. Shiro clearly took too long because Keith’s definitely asleep, but any disappointment at missing his chance to makeout with Keith is eclipsed by the sense of wonder at Keith _in his bed_. Gone are the days of watching Keith fall asleep in a rickety hospital bed wondering if his oxygen levels were stable enough. Keith is healthy and safe, they both are, and now they’re together.

Shiro is the luckiest man alive.

Loath as Shiro is to disturb Keith’s slumber, Shiro also really wants back in the bed. The house is freezing and Shiro itches to have Keith in his arms again. He’s slow and methodical as he gets a knee on the bed, even slower as he lifts Keith’s arm and slips under him. It takes a lot of maneuvering, but Shiro manages to get under the covers, and under Keith, without waking him. 

It’s not until Shiro closes his eyes to try and fall back asleep that he realizes there’s something hard pressed into his thigh and it’s not Keith’s knee. It makes sense, Shiro’s young too and no stranger to getting a boner in his sleep. Hell, he can already feel his own cock hardening in response and he inhales through his nose, slowly letting it out through his mouth. as he tries to dispel his rapidly growing arousal. Keith’s asleep, and Shiro’s not about to disturb him because his sleepiness has transformed into horniness. 

In his sleep Keith grumbles, fidgeting atop Shiro. It’s enough to make Shiro’s half-hard cock jump to full attention, but still he ignores it, smoothing his hand up and down Keith’s back.

“Shhh,” Shiro soothes, hoping Keith isn’t having a nightmare.

Shiro continues to rub his palm up and down Keith’s spine, the cotton of his tank top bunching up beneath his fingers as Shiro turns his head and buries his face in Keith’s hair. It smells like salt and sea, and memories of Keith in his tiny boxers, skin aglow from the sun as they splashed in the water assault Shiro. It does nothing to halt his growing arousal.

He’s so distracted trying not to think about how horny he is that it takes Shiro an embarrassingly long time to realize that Keith’s probably not having a bad dream, he’s having a wet dream.

The realization comes when Keith lets out a soft little moan in his sleep. The suspicions are confirmed when a moment later Keith starts to rock his hips, and yeah, he’s definitely not having a nightmare.

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs, tapping his fingers on his back.

No response. Instead Keith writhes, another little moan falling from his lips. Shiro inhales sharply, desperately trying not to rock his own hips in turn. He doesn’t mind Keith using him to get off, what he does mind is being unsure if it’s what Keith wants.

“Keith.”

Keith grumbles, rubbing his face into Shiro’s shoulder like a kitten. 

“Baby, wake up.”

“M’awake,” Keith whispers, words mumbled into Shiro’s shoulder. 

“You, uh...you were—”

“Rubbing one off on you,” Keith finishes, face still shoved into Shiro’ shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. It was hot as fuck. I just...I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do it.”

Keith lifts his face to look at Shiro. His eyes are heavy lidded with sleep, there’s a pillow line on his cheek, and there’s a flush across his face either from embarrassment or arousal.

“Shiro, did you wake me up to make sure I consented to rubbing my dick on you?” His voice is gravelly with sleep.

“Um...yes?”

“Fuck, I love you,” Keith blurts, shifting up to kiss Shiro. He lets out a hum, swiping his tongue across Shiro’s lip. “Mmm, minty. Did you brush your teeth for me too?”

Shiro’s cheeks heat. “Maybe.”

“Cute, so fucking cute,” Keith huffs, collapsing back on top of Shiro’s chest and shoving his face in Shiro’s neck.

“So for the record, you, uh...you do consent to rubbing your cock on me? Because I definitely was into that.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, mouthing at Shiro’s neck. He’s not asleep anymore, clearly.

“Yes. Hot. So hot. You should definitely do that again. If you...if you wanted.”

Keith hums, removing his warm, soft mouth from Shiro’s neck. There’s a lazy smile that takes shape on his face as he lifts himself up to hover above Shiro, bracing one hand on either side of Shiro’s head.

“Hi,” Keith murmurs, long strands of hair falling into his face. He’s so beautiful it actually hurts.

“Hey, baby.”

“You, uh, you said that before too,” Keith mumbles, wiggling his hips as he better situates himself over Shiro’s left thigh.

“Baby?”

A slow exhale, then a nod as Keith rocks his hips, once more dragging his cock against Shiro, only this time it’s on purpose.

“Too much?” Shiro asks, hands smoothing down Keith’s side to slip beneath the hem of his loose tank and find purchase on his tiny waist.

“No,” Keith groans, fisting his hands in the sheets as he thrusts. 

“You like it?” Shiro asks, thumbing over Keith’s hipbone as he urges Keith down on his again.

Keith nods, eyes half shut and mouth hanging open. “Yes.”

“Okay, baby.”

Keith makes a needy little noise, pitching himself forward with such force his knee brushes up against Shiro’s erection. It feels incredible.

“Baby,” Shiro repeats, digging his fingers into Keith’s flesh. 

“Nnghh,” Keith groans, head dropping down between his shoulders as he snaps his hips. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows and his breath is coming out in little pants, the entire bed rocking beneath them and making Shiro’s beat up old secondhand headboard thump against the wall with every rock of Keith’s hips.

It’s easily the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Shiro, and he knows he’s never going to forget what Keith looks like bathed in moonlight and half asleep while riding Shiro’s thigh.

“Keith.”

“Shiro.”

“Keith.”

“Shiro,” Keith huffs, something halfway between a laugh and a moan.

“You’re really pretty, Keith.”

Keith definitely laughs this time, dropping down onto his elbows as he shakes his head to flick the hair from his eyes. His face is just an inch or so from Shiro’s now as he continues to rock his hips.

“I’m gross,” he grunts. “Smell like the beach, my mouth taste like shit and I’m sweaty.”

“Perfect, you're perfect,” Shiro says, darting his head up to lick a stripe across Keith’s jaw. He definitely tastes faintly of salt and also like shitty tequila. Shiro doesn’t hate it.

“You’re gross,” Keith snorts, laughing harder as he continues to roll his hips. 

Shiro had no idea that the hottest moment of his life would also be one of the funnest, but maybe that's what happens when you fall in love with someone who was your best friend first. Keith’s laughter is infectious and Shiro finds himself joining in, half laughing and half moaning as Keith wedges a hand between their bodies to give Shiro’s cock a firm squeeze, all while he continues to rut against Shiro.

“Guess we’re even then. Now we’re both gross,” Shiro says, aware of the mood shifting into something more frantic as the hand fondling his cock finds its way beneath his waistband. When Shiro looks back on this moment later he will definitely blame his post-alcohol stupor on what happens next.

One second Keith is wrapping his long, delicate fingers around Shiro’s girth, and the next Shiro’s coming with a bitten-off cry. Instead of being put off by Shiro prematurely shooting off his load, Keith slams his mouth against Shiro’s to silence the moan falling from his own lips.

“So fucking hot,” Keith gasps between kisses, barely giving Shiro a chance to catch his breath as Keith tries to keep riding Shiro’s thigh and stroke him through his orgasm at the same time. It proves to be too difficult to manage both, and in the end Keith abandons both in favor of rising up and shoving his boxers down. He clearly means to jerk himself off but Shiro beats him to it, gently moving Keith’s hand to the side in favor of wrapping his own around Keith’s cock.

“Oh my god,” Keith gasps. 

It turns out Shiro’s not the only one who can prematurely shoot off. No sooner is Shiro watching the way Keith’s cock looks sliding between his fingers—cockhead slipping out from the foreskin and drops of precome dripping down the side of his hand—before Keith’s coming with a broken-off cry.

Shiro continues to stroke him off, mesmerized by the way Keith goes boneless and slack-jawed as his hips stutter. 

“You still with me?” Shiro asks once he’s milked him dry.

Keith doesn’t answer in words, merely letting out a little grunt as he collapses on top of Shiro. Shiro laughs, rolling Keith off him. Keith grunts again, clearly displeased.

“Just gonna clean you,” Shiro whispers, grabbing the travel Kleenex out of his bedside drawer and cleaning them up the best he can. In the end he ditches his own boxers and sweats since they’re too sticky, leaving the bed only long enough to pull on a fresh pair.

When he crawls back into bed Keith’s removed his tank top and is burrowed beneath the blankets in nothing but his boxers. He lifts the edge of the blankets for Shiro, who climbs beneath them and is immediately assaulted by an octopus disguised as a human.

“You like to cuddle after sex.” It’s not a question.

“Hush,” Keith mumbles, shoving his nose into Shiro’s neck as he tugs Shiro’s hands around to cup his ass as Keith throws an arm and leg over Shiro. “Mmm, so much better.”

Yeah, Shiro thinks, definitely better.

“Thank you for today,” Keith whispers, his breathing beginning to slow as he nuzzles into Shiro’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to thank me. It wasn’t even perfect. I promise the next time I take you on a date it will be though.”

“Was perfect,” Keith counters, clearly halfway to sleep already if the low rumble of his voice is any indication. “Was with you.”

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, hiding his face on the top of Keith’s head. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Keith echoes softly. “Go to sleep now.”

“Okay, Keith,” Shiro whispers, pressing a kiss to his hair.

In just a few seconds Keith’s breathing evens out as he drifts off to sleep. For Shiro, sleep doesn’t come so easily. He spends a long time simply watching Keith sleep, stroking his fingers through Keith’s hair and down his spine.

Eventually though, sleep begins to claim Shiro.

As his eyes get heavier Shiro seeks out Keith’s hand, entwining their fingers as his thoughts go muddled and the world goes dark.

The last thing he sees before he shuts his eyes is something he knows will also be the first thing he gets to see when he wakes up—Keith. 

Perfect, Shiro thinks as he slips into dreamland. Keith was right—it was the perfect day.

**Author's Note:**

> **Shiro and Keith met as kids when they both had cancer and were in the same children's hospital. Their past cancer treatment is mentioned throughout the story since its how they first met but the cancer is gone for both of them and it's all happy endings only promise.
> 
> Come scream about Shieth with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


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